


Debunked

by tinman99



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark!Dean, Demon!Dean, F/M, Gen, Megstiel - Freeform, abaddean, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 49,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2045976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinman99/pseuds/tinman99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Castiel cannot stay here. He will bring the angels down on all of us." It's all downhill from there. Slight-AU set after "I'm No Angel." If Dean had been able to argue to keep Cas in the bunker. Different take on the direction season 9 could've gone in, including angels and demons. Rated T for language and possibly adult themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bargaining

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic. Just how one idea of how I thought season 9 could have gone, kind of AU, set right after "I'm No Angel." Pretty much just wanted Castiel to stick around, and it spring-boarded from there. Initially it will re-cover some of the same ground as the show, but pretty soon I hope to get it in real AU territory. For instance, more on the angel war, more with Abaddon, more with Crowley? Thinking of rating it M for language and maybe some adult themes later-but sorry guys, no Destiel (or at least no more than the show actually has). Also Meg will be making her way back into the story. How? WAIT AND SEE!
> 
> There's KIND of a "major character death" in this fic but... I think that's only technically true.
> 
>  
> 
> de·bunk: 1. expose the falseness or hollowness of (a myth, idea, or belief).

"Castiel cannot stay here. He will bring the angels down on all of us."

The times when Ezekiel took over were still hard for Dean to adjust to. Ever since he'd tricked Sam into letting the angel possess him, Dean had been grappling with his conscience. It wouldn't have been so bad if Ezekiel had remained more of a _silent_ partner in the "let's-save-Sam" project. And to be fair, it wasn't like Zeke was driving the Sam-mobile most of the time. It was still disconcerting as hell when the transition took place. He was used to his brother slouching a little, probably a learned habit so as not to let his big frame intimidate people. When Zeke was walking around in his little brother, he used all the inches, practically towering over Dean. It was more than that, though. The small animations of his brother's face, the personality coming through that Dean had spent their lives subconsciously learning; it was all gone. Zeke had his brother's face, but there was nothing of Sam in it.

Dean had rationalized this all so far on the basis that the angel could somehow heal his brother after the trials, but it was times like these that the reality prickled at him: he'd let his brother get possessed. By an angel, and a well-meaning one from what he could tell—but he'd had too much to do with angels to really be soothed by that little detail anymore. He'd just hoped to whatever was still listening up there that Zeke was one of the good guys.

But here he was, coming out uninvited, and saying Cas had to go?

"No, no, he's got the Enochian tattoo, he's warded," Dean argued, wondering where this was coming from.

"He was warded when April found him," Zeke said flatly. "And she killed him."

That was hard to argue with. "Yes… and you brought him back. And I thank you for that. But this is Cas, okay? Who _vouched_ for you when I didn't know you from Jack."

Ezekiel was peering over his shoulder into the room where Cas had gone. It wasn't that he didn't show emotions, Dean thought. They just seemed… blunted somehow. Like most angels, especially the ones who seemed more out of touch with the world. It was creepy seeing Sam like that. Disorienting to see those alien expressions on such a familiar face. Damn kid got possessed too often.

When Ezekiel didn't respond, Dean exploded, "The bunker is safe!"

Ezekiel focused back on Dean, stepping into his personal space. "Bartholomew is amassing a force," he said, biting off his words. "We cannot _stand_ an _incursion_. Castiel is in danger. And if he is here, _I_ am in danger."

"Wait, _you're_ in danger? From who, the angels?" This was the first Dean had heard about _that_ little tidbit. He remembered that Zeke had fought with his brother in the parking garage, but it hadn't seemed personal. Hell, Dean was used to these winged dicks trying to gank one another.

And there was that shifty look, again, Zeke blowing out his breath in a quiet huff. Avoiding eye contact.

"If he stays," Ezekiel said, sounding almost regretful, "I'm afraid I will have no choice but to leave."

"Well, no, you can't do that," Dean said, fighting a flutter of panic. "Sam's not well enough. I mean if you leave his body—"

"I know," Ezekiel stated. "I'm sorry."

Dean tried to think past his fear. The situation wasn't ideal, but at least it had been holding steady. And Zeke had _said_ Sam was healing. Dean had no proof; he didn't even have proof that Sam hadn't been mojo'd up by now. I mean how long does it take to fix a freaking vessel? He'd been going by faith so far, so shouldn't he go a little further? I mean, Cas was his friend, probably his best friend, but didn't Sammy come first? Didn't Sam always come first?

But now… This was something else altogether. This had the feeling of an ultimatum. Do as the angel says or the hunter gets it. I mean who the hell did this guy think he was, holding Sam hostage like this? A sour feeling rolled through Dean's gut, quieting the fear as Dean started to get a little _pissed_. He didn't like people jerking his chain, especially not where Sam was concerned. Maybe Ezekiel's heart was in the right place, but this wasn't the way to go about it.

"April was a fluke," Dean found himself trying to reason. "Look if the angels, the reapers, if _anybody_ could just track Cas down, they would've done it by now. They wouldn't have had to try and follow us to find him."

"I know this is difficult for you. But you must choose."

"No, no, I get it. I do, okay. Just… We can't just throw him out, man. What would I tell Sam? Or Cas?"

"You will have to think of something," Zeke said, unmoved.

"If we kick him out, now, he could die! …Again. I mean you're his friend, aren't you? Or whatever passes for friends with you guys. That's why you brought him back, isn't it?"

There was a furrow between Sam's brows, a disquieted expression. "Castiel cannot be allowed to die right now," he finally agreed. Dean didn't much like how _that_ had been phrased, but he was glad they were getting on the same page. Again, that quiet huff of breath as Zeke frowned, not meeting Dean's eyes. "What do you propose?"

"Just let him stay a little while," Dean rushed, hating that he had to plead like this. "Let him get his feet under him. Learn a few more skills about living out there."

"Castiel is not helpless."

"But he's not used to being human. Look, you saw him. First pretty face that came along, poor guy ended up a shish kabob. Just give him a little time to adjust. You know, so he doesn't immediately _die_ again."

Well, at least now Ezekiel was actually wearing one of Sam's usual expressions: the patented Sam Winchester bitch-face. "Just until he adjusts," he conceded, looking like the words had been dragged out of him. "And then he _will_ have to leave. You have until then to come up with your excuses."

Dean still wasn't sure why Zeke was being such a pain in the ass about this, but for the moment he was a little too relieved to care. His family was going to be able to stay together, and that was what really mattered.

Or should matter. He didn't like much of anything about that conversation. Not the way Zeke had just _taken_ over Sam's body when there was no immediate danger. Not the threats to effectively kill his brother. Or the shady looks he was giving Cas, or the little bomb he'd dropped about the other angels being a danger to him. Dean had the feeling he had let himself get in way over his head without even realizing it. I mean, leave it to a Winchester to make a hasty deal that came back to bite him in the ass. And if it was just him that had to deal with the fallout, maybe he could've stomached that, but not if Sam was left hanging in the middle like this. He should probably have thought this through a little more. Those paper-sun saviors are never quite as good as they seem. There's always a catch, and there's always a price, and that little crack in the veneer over Ezekiel had finally cast some sunshine on the little seed of doubt in Dean's mind. No, no matter what happened in this next little while, Dean was going to have to keep his eyes open when it came to that guy. And a little research probably couldn't hurt.

For now, though, he had to go have a talk with Cas. It was one thing to stave off Ezekiel's demands, but it had been a temporary fix at best. He'd need to prepare Cas for what was coming so the poor guy didn't get blindsided again. He'd had a rough couple of weeks from what Dean could tell, starting with getting his grace ripped out of him. From Anna's account, he didn't expect that had been a barrelful of laughs. Since then he'd been living amongst the homeless and apparently shacking up with murderous, torturing reaper chicks. And, well, look how that had turned out. One more big betrayal might just do him in, permanently.

"Cas, uh, can we talk?" Dean started, coming to the table where Castiel was just finishing eating.

"Of course," Cas said, actually drawing out the chair next to himself. "Dean, you know I always appreciate our talks. And our time together."

Could this little bastard be any more sincere? Jesus it was lucky Dean had managed to talk Ezekiel down. The world would've eaten him alive.

Dean chose not to take the chair, instead sitting down on the table as he cleared his throat and tried to think how to word this in the best possible way. "Uh, listen, buddy, um… You can't stay…"

Oh that look. If Castiel were a puppy, that would be the look he'd give right after Dean had kicked him with a well-aimed, steel-toed boot. Just the uncomprehending sadness and betrayal.

"…forever!" Dean yelped, trying to give a convincing smile. "You can't stay forever, man!"

"I… don't understand," Cas said, still looking a little hurt, but it was back down to manageable levels again.

"Well, I mean… We're not the _most_ fun to be around. You probably got stuff you wanted to do. A whole world to see out there. You don't want to stay holed up with us forever, do you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, ya _can't_ ," Dean said, getting a little gruffer. "C'mon, man, this isn't much of a life. Sam and I are stuck with it, but that doesn't mean you are. Hey, come on. It'll be okay, don't gimme that look. Sam and I will be here. We'll still give you some life lessons. Help you get on your feet. And when you're ready… Seriously, Cas, you don't want to fall into thinking Sam and I are role models for a healthy life. I mean all kidding aside, I think you could do better as a human."

Castiel was smiling again, faintly, giving Dean a fond look. "You're selling yourself short. You and your brother have many good qualities. You're determined, intelligent, you protect the weak. You have a great deal of affection for one another." Cas considered a moment and added, "I could probably do without the dangerous codependency. Or the self-loathing. And you do seem to both fall into addictions fairly readily, but…"

"Okay, okay. Look, I'm just saying: there's a lot more to life than you could probably find here. I wouldn't… want you to miss out on that."

He hadn't quite known what he was going to say when he'd started this conversation. He'd planned on coming up with some vague excuse at the least, or a promise to explain later if nothing else. But now he realized that it wasn't just an excuse. Cas was like a brother to him, and he didn't really want to see him go. At the same time, Dean still wanted something _better_ for him. It was too late for Sam or him. Probably had always been too late. He'd made a go of it with Lisa, and God knows Sammy had tried to break away. And even if things hadn't worked out, at least they'd both had their chances to try. It was with a desperate kind of fierceness that he began to have a hope that his _whole_ family wouldn't be cursed like them. That maybe Cas could go out there and live something like a happy life. Maybe not a completely _normal_ , apple pie life, but at least something that could break the cycle. It wouldn't be fair to him to spend his whole human life in this mess. There were things Sam and Dean just couldn't offer him in terms of the human experience, and he deserved to find out what those things could be.

"So it's for my own good?" Cas said, seeming a little amused. But he accepted this, at least, nodding slightly. "I think I understand. As you might nudge a fledgling out of the nest so it can learn to fly."

"Exactly," Dean said, still a little overwhelmed with emotion and trying not to show it. He clapped Cas on the shoulder as he stood. "It'll be fine! We'll get you set up in no time. Get you a gun, some fake ID's, credit cards, teach you to drive and cook and make a budget. _Someone's_ going to have to give you the sex talk. And hey, while you're here, we can finally have that slumber party and braid Sam's hair."


	2. Weird-ar And Weird-ar

Dean was suspicious of how well things were going. Things didn't go this well without there secretly being something terribly wrong. Not in his experience.

Cas had settled into living at the bunker with surprising ease. Dean been harboring a resigned fear of what unwitting disasters the de-graced dude would fall into. Cas was technically a very new human, and Dean could vividly recall (and had blackmail pictures to back him up) what even well-intentioned persons of limited experience could get up to. He was thus pleasantly surprised when Cas, for the most part, exercised common sense, recalled some basic knowledge of human activity from his very long life, and ultimately comported himself very well, considering. In point of fact, Dean thought Sam could learn a little something about cleanliness (being next to godliness) from the ex-angel. You know, like not clogging up the shower drain with his girly hair.

"We're not living in a motel. We don't have maids," Dean grumbled to himself as he scrubbed a particularly infuriating pan. He looked down at his sudsy hands and firmly pronounced, "I'm not the maid."

And really, the situation wasn't terrible by any means. And maybe it was a little hard to live up to Dean's standards. But he only set them so high because he took pride in the place. To Dean it was a home. For Sam it was still just a place he was living.

"Dean, can I talk to you?" Sam asked, entering the kitchen.

"In a minute. What the hell were you cooking in this? Was it evil? You know we're only s'posed to salt and burn the evil ones, right Sammy?"

"Um, yeah. If it bothers you that much I'll clean it later. Anyway. You remember how Kevin said that big map table lit up like a Christmas tree when the angels fell? Well I've been poking around, and I think I've figured out why. The Men of Letters, they must've had this thing rigged up to react to big supernatural activity."

"Kinda like weird-radar? Weird-ar?"

"Exactly. So it's essentially a big computer, right? I mean a really old, freaky computer. But the basic code should all still be the same. And if it's already hooked up to respond to the supernatural, I was thinking we could probably use that, right? Like to focus more specifically on where there're clusters: we already know it works for angels, but who knows, this might come in really handy for all kinds of bad news."

"Sounds great. So what's the hold-up?"

Sam looked a little embarrassed, admitting, "I've taken it about as far as my skills can go. I hardly even know what I'm looking at with this thing. I mean it's old, but it's also got like some spell work or something in it. Honestly, I've never seen anything like it. And even if I had, I wouldn't know how to write the code for a job like this."

"So… Who do we know who's good with computers and won't run away from the hoodoo?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback appreciated!


	3. Speak Softly and Carry a Big Stick

As it turns out, the human body was not really meant to imbibe copious amounts of alcohol.

Castiel had been helping Kevin with the angel tablet research—to the best of his abilities—since he'd come to the bunker. While he couldn't read the tablet himself, he did what he could. Kevin was initially a little cool towards him, resenting their last conversation when Cas had essentially told him that he couldn't escape his destiny as a prophet and to just get back to work. But in virtually no time they got on like a house on fire. The interaction actually seemed to do them both some good. Castiel had a wide range of background knowledge to draw from, and was fairly good with most human languages. He also acted as a kind of buffer from the Winchesters who, let's face it, could be pretty demanding. Sure, they needed the research or the spell or the monster lore all done _now_ , and there were always lives on the line—still, a little more acknowledgement of how much effort all this took wouldn't be remiss, every now and then.

Last night had been difficult. Kevin seemed to have run into a wall with the tablet, grumbling about how it didn't seem to _want_ to be translated. Castiel suggested that they should take a short break to rest their eyes. This turned into a long break where they took turns mocking Metatron's prose. This turned into an even longer break when Cas got some beers to better fuel the "creative juices." The rest of the night was kind of a blur. By the time the Winchesters got there, the prophet and the ex-angel were quite roaringly drunk. Kevin's initial dabbling into cuneiform had devolved into crude stick figures doing anatomically impossible things to another stick-figured marked with an 'M.' Castiel kept trying to teleport, and looked thoroughly confused at every failure. When he discovered the reason for this, he drunkenly threatened them all to give him back his wings or he'd toss them into Hell. Except Kevin, who was apparently his very best friend now. And Dean, because Dean was actually his very best friend. And not Sam, although Sam was not his best friend and never would be. Stop trying, Sam. His best friend was, and always would be, alcohol.

Well, they were both of them feeling the effects from the night before. A pot of coffee sat between them, already half consumed. They cringed when one of them turned a page too loudly.

Dean very helpfully carried a stack of books over to their table and slammed them down within easy reach. "Morning, sunshines!" he boomed. "And how are you both on this lovely day?"

Kevin groaned, still wincing from the sound of impact. "Hello, Dean," Castiel said, gravely. "We are both doing terribly."

"I want to go back to hugging the toilet," Kevin agreed, slumping over the table.

"Well, suck it up, buttercup. Charlie's going to be here soon, and we might need all hands on deck to get this weird-ar up and running. How's it going on your end, with the God-rock?"

"Terribly," Castiel repeated.

"Hence the interlude in drunken minor, I guess. You know you two are a couple of lightweights. You drank, what, five beers between the two of you?"

"There was also the whiskey. And the bourbon," Cas said, helpfully, while Kevin started groaning in a more worrying fashion. "The bottles were hidden all over the library and kitchen areas. I can only surmise a few of the Men of Letters were raging alcoholics."

Dean hastily nudged the trash bin within Kevin's reach and changed the subject. "Well, we need to restock supplies, not least of all to replace the beers. Sam's heading out. I figured you'd go with him?"

"Where is Sam?" Kevin asked, blinking owlishly. "He used to be a little more helpful with this."

"Well you've got a new assistant, now, don't'cha?" Dean tried to deflect.

"Sam does seem to spend a lot more of his time alone than he used to. And he's sleeping more than usual."

"Please tell me you're not still creeping on people when they're sleeping, Cas. I've told you: It's weird."

"He looks sick, Dean," Castiel continued, not to be dissuaded. "He's lost weight. His color's off. Judging from the shower drain, he seems to be losing more hair than is normal."

"He's had a rough time, all right?" Dean snapped. "Those trials were hell on him."

"But Dean… didn't you say that the angel, Ezekiel, was going to heal him?"

"Wait, who? What angel?" Kevin asked, sitting bolt upright.

Cas looked from Dean to Kevin and back. "You didn't tell him? About when Sam was in the hospital? About Ezekiel?"

"Dean?"

Holy hell, how was Dean supposed to keep cool with them both looking at him like that: trusting and concerned and confused. The panic was back, seeming to move inside of his chest like a moth caught between windowpanes. He knew he should come clean, but that wasn't really a viable option. He knew how the expressions would shift, to distrust and distaste. They couldn't understand the choice he'd been faced with in that hospital. It wasn't that he didn't want to let Sam go; it was that he _couldn't_. And anyway, it was too late now. It was done. No use bitching over it. Sam would get better. He'd _have_ to get better. And they could just forgive him for this later; or not. So long as they were all reasonably happy and healthy by the end of this, Dean was counting it as a win.

That couldn't happen by spilling the beans, now. Castiel and Kevin would only try to intervene. And if Zeke left before Sammy was ready…

"It's nothing," he said, giving a reassuring smile. It almost hurt his face, keeping it fixed like that. "That angel dude helped but, come on, this isn't a quick fix. I mean, Cas, you said yourself there was something going on with Sam down at, like, the atomic level. Zeke mojo'd him, but his body's still gotta recover on its own."

"Sam didn't mention any of this," Kevin said, slowly.

"I didn't tell him. Look, he was in a bad way. I did what I had to." His voice almost choked on the words before he forced himself to laugh, saying, "I just didn't want to worry him about how bad it got. He's getting better now. All right?"

Kevin asked, "Well what did this angel want in return?"

"What? Nothing."

"Come on, Dean. These deals always have some sort of price tag."

"Well not this time," Dean said, firmly. "This guy was… just a real cool dude. I mean, you knew him, right, Cas?"

"Ezekiel was an… honorable sort," Castiel agreed. "He was always well thought-of. When Raphael was attempting to wrest control of heaven, Ezekiel was one of the more vocal moderates. He believed in a lasting peace. His faction had some sympathies with mine. I distinctly remember deciding not to smite him when I was cleaning house in heaven."

"Well, there you go. Even Godstiel didn't want to smite him."

Kevin still looked suspicious. He had every reason to be. Dean just had to hope that he'd keep it to himself as Sam came in to see what the hold-up was with Cas.

"You coming or not?" Sam asked. His expression was friendly enough, but he hadn't come into the room all the way. He lingered in the archway, as though unconsciously he would just as well leave Castiel behind. It was at odds with his words as he urged, "Come on, you should get out and enjoy the sunshine."

"I think I would be of more use here…"

"I'll be fine for a few hours," Kevin waved him off, frowning at the mess he'd made of his notes in his drunken fugue. "It'll take at least that long to repair the damage."

"Yeah, and anyway, you might learn something useful," Dean added.

"Like what?" Cas grumbled, probably still cranky from the hangover. "I understand the concept of grocery shopping perfectly well. I remember when you all used to use animal carcasses as currency. The move to iron and precious metal as representations of the physical wealth was an interesting process. Of course, at its root, you are still trading 'bucks' for other desired goods."

"Is that where that comes from? Anyway, I meant something a little less History channel."

"Like practical frugality," Sam chimed in. "And maybe some lessons on basic nutrition requirements."

"Beyond the White Castle food pyramid."

"If you're sure my assistance is not needed," Castiel said, doubtfully, trailing after Sam.

"Come on, it'll be fun," Sam said bracingly as they disappeared from view. "I'll even let you pick out dinner."

Dean could just faintly hear Cas asking about noodles with jam sauce when he turned back to Kevin, tapping quickly on the prophet's notes to get the kid's attention. "So with this spell, you still stuck on the Water Temple?" Preemptively he added, "It's slow-going and tortuous, I mean."

Kevin looked around at the stacks of papers and research pointedly. "Clearly. Metatron made it nearly indecipherable."

"But there are some parts you can read easy, right?"

"I wouldn't call it _easy_ , but—"

"You got anything in there about suppressing angels?"

"What, like banishing them or killing them, like the demon-bomb recipe?"

"Or just weakening them."

"I'm… not sure. Why?"

Insurance against dick-head angels. Plan Save-a-Sam. Take your pick.

"Emergency measures, Kev. We've got angels coming out of the woodwork out there. I mean more than ever before. We don't have a whole hell of a lot of holy oil left to throw around, and it's not like Cas can just zap off to get some more. We need to think of some new strategies. It could be useful to talk to the hosts. You know, clue them into this mess so they can eject the angels themselves."

"Saving the vessel," Kevin agreed, pulling the tablet closer to himself again, but shaking his head wearily. "I don't know, Dean. I mean there might be something in here somewhere, but…"

"Okay, just… backburner idea, okay? Just tell me you'll get around to it."

"Sure, Dean."

Dean felt another pang of guilt as Kevin didn't make any more inquiries, quietly shouldering more work. Here they were all worried about Sam, while Kevin still didn't look in top form. Kid should've been unnecessarily giving himself ulcers at university, not stuck in this little cave with a slab of rock. Hell, Kevin should've gone with Sam and Cas just now. If only to get out of the bunker for a few hours. How long had it been since he'd let up on the kid?

He'd just have to make it up to him, later. When all of this was over. When he was sure there was a back-up plan for if—when—shit hit the fan again. Until then Kevin would just have to understand. Knuckle down. Get the job done.

"I'll get you some more coffee."


	4. Side-Trip

All in all, the trip wasn't really a waste of time. The shopping had gone smoothly, and Castiel felt he had learned a bit. The whole process of energy consumption to refuel the imperfect human body was fairly easy to understand, and Castiel had never paid much attention to it before. Getting Sam's shorthand on recommended daily nutrient intakes would probably be more important for when Cas was living on his own, again. By far, though, the most useful information came as a result of a side-trip. Sam had pulled into an empty parking lot and had Cas sit behind the wheel for some preliminary driving instructions. He'd overridden Castiel's mumbled protests, asserting that they weren't going to send him out into the world without at least knowing how to drive.

"I understand the basic mechanism," Castiel had said, stiffly, adjusting the rearview mirror to account for the height difference. "And I've seen you both driving, so I know the rules of the road."

"Great. Then all you really need is practice."

"I don't think Dean would want me driving his car," Cas tried. "As an inexperienced driver—"

"Well I won't tell if you won't. Anyway, there's not a whole lot of damage you can get up to in an empty parking lot. And you have your driver's license, so we're all set."

A few days earlier they had finally gotten around to forging him some new identification for a Clarence Novak. Castiel had decided that his real name was still too dangerous for him to offer to strangers, and this one still held good memories for him from his time with the demon, Meg. And really, the only other suitable name would probably be the vessel's, Jimmy's—and that hadn't felt right. This had been Jimmy Novak's body, but Jimmy hadn't been home since the first time Castiel had died. Cas liked to think that Jimmy's soul had found its way to Heaven, but it was equally possible it had simply ceased to exist.

So really, this had been a fairly productive outing. But Cas couldn't shake the feeling there was something sort of… wrong. Castiel was not particularly intuitive when it came to interpersonal communication. There were too many signals to read and confuse. Even when it just came to trusting others, it turned out Castiel was a terrible judge of character.

Even so, Cas recognized that there was something off about Sam. It was more than just the sense of sickness that hung about him. Cas liked to think that their friendship had grown more comfortable with time. Ever since Castiel had taken Sam's madness, there had certainly been a greater sense of warmth. It was missing, now. Sam said the right things, but his body language was stilted. He pressed his big frame against the edges of the vehicle, as though to escape.

They were nearly back to the bunker, and Cas thought he should probably say something. Dean had warned not to burden Sam with information about his illness, but Sam probably had already guessed a lot. Maybe that also accounted for his behavior: that he felt angry with them for thinking to keep it a secret.

"How are you, Sam?"

Sam startled before letting out a laugh. "Good. I'm actually feeling really good. I mean, considering."

"I know you've been ill…"Cas tested the waters.

"I was. Yeah. I… For a while, I thought those trials would kill me. And I know I still look kinda crappy, but I'm on the mend, now."

"So you're all right? Then… are we all right?"

"What? Of course. Cas, look, the angels falling wasn't your fault. Metatron tricked you. We all get that. We wouldn't hold it against you."

Castiel considered pressing the issue. How lately Sam seemed to be finding excuses to leave the room when Cas was there. How he avoided eye-contact or most direct communication if he could help it. These little signs of rejection had been slowly filtering in. But maybe Cas had simply gotten it wrong. He'd be the first to admit that he was not particularly adept at reading non-verbal communication.

"You seem… nervous."

"Do I?" Sam only just now seemed to take stock of himself. His hands on the steering wheel were trembling slightly in his white-knuckled grip. He had to laugh at himself a little as he straightened away from the door. "You're right; I don't know what it is. I'm… I'm shaking a little. I don't know why. Kinda feels like an anxiety attack to be honest. I'm okay," he asserted, quickly. "I'm good to drive. I think it's probably just more side-effects, you know? I'm fine," he said, a little firmer, clearing his throat and turning up the music.

Castiel strongly considered telling Sam about the hospital and the miracle cure. He felt Sam had a right to know. And that it might give him some peace of mind that he was certainly "on the mend" as he had said, and should make a full recovery if things progressed as Ezekiel had anticipated. But ultimately he let it go. Dean had asked them to keep it quiet, and Castiel trusted that Dean knew his brother best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted some Cas and Sam time. These two just make me happy. The development of their friendship was subtler than it had been for Dean and Cas, but it was still pretty cute. I just felt like if Cas had stuck around, he would have felt shut out and a little hurt, and neither of them would know why.


	5. Hunts and Ultimatums

Sam was putting away groceries when Dean came in, peeking into one of the bags.

"Mm. More frozen burritos. Because those never get old. Hey, Charlie got here right after you guys left. We almost had a little mishap with some spooky-looking jar, but it's cool. She thinks she'll have the weird-ar up and running in no time."

"And what of Castiel?"

The tone was wrong. The intonations different. Stiff. Dean stepped back a pace as Ezekiel turned to him. Wearing his brother's skin like a goddamn monster. Dean pushed the feeling of uneasiness down. He'd asked for this.

"What about him?" he said, warily. "I hooked him up downstairs playing Duck Hunter."

Well. Modified Duck Hunter. Dean had Frankenstein'd the controllers and put them back together with real guns so they could practice with the right weight without wasting bullets. Castiel had gravitated towards the shotguns when Dean had set him on using firearms. He'd had a little practice before, but that was when he still had some of his mojo. He hadn't been prepared for the kickback. Hopefully he'd get the hang of it, but Dean had figured this was a pretty good compromise.

"That is not what I was referring to," Ezekiel said, walking closer. "When is he leaving?"

Right. This again. "I don't think he's ready yet. And anyway, no one's found us. I don't think they can actually track him. I told you that."

"He is getting… suspicious."

"Of what? Of _you_?" Well that was hardly surprising. Dean counted himself damn lucky that with all these smart bastards around no one had figured it out yet. If it came to that, Kevin probably had more pieces of the puzzle together than any of them. And it wasn't like they could just throw the prophet out on his ear. "Well, I guess you'll have to get better at lying, man."

"This is not a joke."

"No. It's not. But you know, this isn't exactly an ideal situation for any of us. I mean, you keep saying you're healing Sam—"

"I _am_ healing Sam."

"Right. You said that. But he _doesn't look healed_."

"It will take time."

"Yeah. Yeah you said that, too." Dean tried to get a read on the angel. It was hard to look past his brother's furrowed brow. And the eyes… they were just inscrutable. Almost blank. Cold. There was nothing there. Finally Dean had to say, "I'm trying to keep the suspicion off. I'm doing my best, here."

"I understand it is… difficult for you," Ezekiel conceded, taking the opportunity for reconciliation. His jaw clenched, and he turned away, going back to the groceries. "Just keep him away from me."

"How the hell am I supposed to do that? Sam actually _likes_ Cas."

"Huh?"

He'd switched again. Sam glanced at him inquisitively. Just Sam. Dean felt like he was going to get whiplash from this shit.

"I said, uh, how'd things go? With Cas? You guys were gone a while."

"Oh. Fine. Yeah, I think he's coming along. You know. Wow, this melted fast. Here, help me stuff this in the freezer. You were saying Charlie's here?"

"Uh. Yeah. Yeah, she's got the weird-ar pretty much up and running. You should come take a look."

They found Charlie back in what Dean was starting to think of as the War Room, standing over the weird-ar. She had a laptop hooked up to its base and was busy typing something into it. She stopped when she saw the Winchesters enter and gave Sam a hug in greeting before turning back to geek out over the laptop.

"This thing is pretty amazing. I amped up the power on it to respond to wider range of activity. It can also differentiate between different kinds of supernatural activity, but I think they just didn't have the interface to show the differences. Well. Now you do."

"What, like between the angels and demons?" Dean asked.

"Angels, demons, shifters, witches, ghosts —I've got most of them sorted out, yeah."

"Charlie… you're awesome."

"I know," she agreed. "Gimme a little more time with it, I'll have this baby completely mobile. Maybe even make an app for it. Here, so far I've set up a program to give you a readout; it's pretty rudimentary right now, but if you just pick the right icon on the laptop it should correspond with the lights on the map. These are the big congregations of angels. There's a lot in the Detroit area right now. And if I switch it to witchcraft—I put a little Hogwarts crest for witches—you see them a little more scattered, but there's kind of a big network somewhere in Chicago."

"Can you go back to the angels?" Sam asked, looking at the map. "Huh. There's a cluster near Detroit, you're right, but I think that's because of Cas. They're probably trying to pick up the trail from there.

"Hey, yeah, why was he even in Detroit? I thought he was headed here from Colorado?"

"Apparently angels are _really_ bad with directions," Charlie said.

Sam tapped the map. "What's this big one in Wyoming? And this other one, here."

"They kinda seem to branch out from there," Charlie frowned. "Maybe building their own armies. Kinda Two Towers, isn't it?"

Dean folded his arms. "You think they're organizing?"

"It's what I would do." Castiel had entered from the other side of the room. He was still carrying the converted shotgun-controller, and set it down on the table, now. "The heavenly host is meant to work in unity. If there are factions forming here on earth in response to the Fall, they will naturally attract followers."

"Hey, what happened to the duck hunting?" Dean asked, casting Sam an uneasy look. It just seemed best to try to accommodate Ezekiel as best he could right now, and that couldn't really happen if Cas kept insisting on being included in conversations.

"I'm taking a break. I found myself getting… frustrated. I never thought I would find a pixilated dog so infuriating." He nodded to Charlie, gravely. "Hello, Charlie. I've heard a lot about you. I'm—"

"I know who you are," she interrupted, excitedly. "You're the one who gripped Dean tight and raised him from Perdition. You're pretty much just as I pictured. Well. Minus the trench coat. Do you still have the trench coat? Somewhere? Sorry, 'technically it's an overcoat,' I know. Ooh, and you even do the head-tilty thing!"

Castiel considered her a moment before smiling in understanding. "You're a fan of Mr. Edlund's work."

"Well, among other things," she muttered under her breath.

"Wait, how did you even know about that?" Sam asked. "I thought the stuff after Dean went to Hell never got published."

"Well. Yeah. But someone uploaded all the unfinished work. I thought it was fanfic at first, but it was clearly Edlund's work."

"Who uploaded it?"

"I don't know. Their screen name was BeckyWinchester176…? Ring a bell?"

Sam looked like he'd just swallowed a bug that was trying to force itself back out through his nose. "None. Uh. Nobody's. Uh, no, there are no bells. Uh…no." He very studiously went about ignoring his brother's amused expression.

"Well, I'm actually glad you're here," Castiel confided to Charlie. "Besides your technical skills, I feel your presence is a necessary contribution to the dynamics of the bunker. I hadn't really thought about it before, but four men living alone together, even in such spacious quarters, begins to affect the body on a very biological level."

Dean cleared his throat, starting to mirror his brother's discomfort. "Okay, Cas."

"I mean the pheromones alone—"

"We get it, Cas!"

Charlie was glancing between the two of them, like she expected something else to happen. She seemed a little disappointed when that was it.

"How do you pull up demons on this thing?" Sam asked, looking at the laptop.

"Over here, just click on the little black cloud and… oh."

The map burned to life, brighter even than the angel display. These weren't isolated pockets, but large sprawling epicenters of glowing activity that crisscrossed across the nation.

"What the hell?" Dean muttered, coming closer. "Is it broken?"

"I—I don't know. Maybe," Charlie stuttered, taking control of the laptop. She was typing a little frantically, still shaking her head. "I don't know."

"That can't be right," Dean said, looking to Sam. "Can it?"

"Hell is missing its king. Maybe they all just came spilling out?"

"Or it's malfunctioning?" Charlie suggested, a little desperately.

Castiel had been studying the map rather intently, and at this he shook his head. "No. This is a coordinated effort. These clusters mark important strategic positions. Centers of human activity, distribution, population."

"But there hasn't been anything in the news, has there?" Sam said, his brow furrowed. "What the hell are they doing?"

"Waiting, maybe," Castiel suggested, shrugging. "The pattern suggests they're under orders from someone, at least."

"Yeah, probably that hell-bitch," Dean growled. "Well isn't that just perfect. If they're all in hiding, how the hell are we even supposed to find them?"

"You could try muttering 'Christo' to see if they flinch," Charlie said quietly, unheard by anyone.

Sam was saying, "Dean, the closest one's in Omaha. We can be there in a few hours. It's worth checking out."

"Yeah. All right, let's head out. You go pack up the car. I'll be there in a minute. _Not_ you two," he added as Cas and Charlie both started to move.

"What?" Charlie asked. "You guys need backup."

"No, I… need you two manning the home office," Dean improvised, watching Sam's retreating back.

Castiel reasoned, "You've got Kevin to do that."

"Yeah, I ran into him," Charlie said. "He's not quite as… prophet-y as I would have expected. He actually seemed a little hung-over."

"You should've seen the prophet Chuck."

"Okay, well, even so," Dean continued, "I just don't think that's a great idea. I mean, Charlie, this isn't like the last hunt. This might be a whole pack of demons just messin' for a possessin'."

"I've been on hunts since then. I know, I know, hunting alone, not a great idea according to the _Supernatural_ books. But I've got experience, now. And Cas, he's like, practically the Gandalf in your party, swooping in to save your dwarf asses at the critical moment."

"Yeah, well, get back to me when he can beat Duck Hunter."

"Come on, Dean. We're just going to follow you in my car. We know where you're headed."

It didn't seem worth the argument, and he honestly couldn't think of any way to convince them not to follow. Ezekiel could hardly complain about something completely out of Dean's hands. He'd just have to try to keep Cas as far away from Sam as he could without either of them getting too suspicious. Or Charlie for that matter.

Well this was just going to be a _fun_ hunt, wasn't it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert: This is not going to be a fun hunt for Dean.
> 
> This chapter's a little dialogue-heavy but, to be fair, so's the show. Hope I managed to keep everyone in character.
> 
> Reviews welcome!


	6. Lost Pets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: Some kind of gritty stuff in this chapter. No. Seriously. If you don't like gore, there's a paragraph or two in here you ought to skip.
> 
> You've been warned.

They pulled into a gas station at the edge of city. Major interstates kept the traffic fairly lively. It was early afternoon, and from what they could tell nothing seemed amiss. They scanned through some of the local newspapers looking for possible clues for demonic activity, but the most they'd found so-far had been a rash of missing pets.

"No suspicious deaths? No missing persons?"

"No more than usual for a city nearing half a million," Sam confirmed. They'd gathered around the Impala's hood to confer, spreading out the city map and newspapers.

"There's the missing pets," Charlie said, a little weakly.

"Missing pets are a pretty far cry from cattle mutilation."

Dean was feeling restless from the drive. "All right, well, we still might as well check it out. That's at least five neighborhoods affected. Maybe they're keeping things small, trying not to attract attention."

"Yeah, or the city's just got a population of well-fed foxes out there. This is weak and you know it."

"What's the word from Kevin?" Dean asked Charlie.

"Some small shifts in the map. Nothing major. And apparently Omaha's still lit up like Mount Doom."

"All right, well maybe you and Sam can dig around a little more online. Maybe into local legends. Could be the weird-ar is picking up on something else entirely and is just interpreting it as demon? Cas and I can just take a look through a few of these neighborhoods, see if anything looks back. Hey, can you still see demon-faces? Anna could see them. I mean while she was still human. She also went a little Carrie on us when she was hypnotized."

"Unfortunately, no. I'm still tuned into 'angel radio,' as you call it, but that seems to be the extent of my powers. For all intents and purposes I'm human, Dean."

Well that was disappointing, but hardly surprising. Anna had mostly been able to do that other stuff under pretty high stress. If Cas hadn't Hulk'd out while he was being tortured by that reaper, it was unlikely anything else was going to make him do it. The situation with Anna had also been a little different. She'd chosen to fall, not had her grace ripped out of her.

"We'll meet up in about an hour, then. Let us know if you guys find anything. Like, I don't know, the whole town being built on a leprechaun colony. That'd be good to know."

"Yeah, okay. Just try not to get abducted by the fairies," Sam said cheerfully. "Again."

"Fight the fairies," Charlie agreed, raising a fist in solidarity.

"Unbelievable," Dean muttered as they were pulling away. Castiel was in the passenger's seat with the city map spread out on his lap to navigate to the first of the indicated neighborhoods, where the newspaper had said the pets had gone missing about a week ago. "I bet they'd feel bad if the fairies did get me."

"I wouldn't let the fairies get you," Cas said, loyally. "Go straight, here."

"So you said your angel radio's still up and running? Any news?"

"Bits and pieces. Damage reports. Apparently… a number died in the fall. Others have suffered catastrophic injuries. Many, their true vessels have not been born yet. Or their line has died out. They're taking temporary hosts and burning through them." He shook his head, gravely. "It seems to be devolving into chaos. I'm not surprised that those who have survived are looking for leadership. You'll want to take a left at this next intersection."

"Do you think… you could be one of those leaders?" Dean asked.

"I'm not sure. Even if I could get any of them to listen to me I… think I'm finally beginning to appreciate my own limits."

"You know, a lot of them seemed to look up to you."

"Maybe. Once. But this just doesn't feel like my fight anymore. I'm human, now. And I think that could be enough. At least for this lifetime."

Dean glanced at him. It was still a little weird, seeing him without the trench coat. He looked smaller, a little less substantial. And yet still strangely serene. Handling all of this a whole hell of a lot better than Dean could have hoped for.

"You'd be okay with that? Just being human? You wouldn't want your grace back?"

Cas sighed, fiddling with the map. "Of course I want to reverse Metatron's spell. To restore the angels to Heaven. And in the process, I wouldn't be adverse to getting my grace back. Of course not. It's a part of me."

"I'm still not sure I'm clear on that. I mean, is it like your soul?"

"That's… not a perfect analogy, but it's close. My grace is… life. Energy. But I'm still myself without it, unlike when Sam was soulless."

"So… if it's just energy, can't you just take another angel's grace and mojo up?"

"Theoretically," Castiel said, clearly uncomfortable. "In the same way you could eat your brother's liver and gain nourishment."

"All right, so I guess that's a 'no' on the cannibalism. But you're really not scared of dying?"

"I'm not looking forward to it," Castiel admitted. "But I presume that I'd go to the same afterlife as any other human if I'm in this state. I'm not sure who's directing the flow of souls right now, but Metatron essentially assured me I'd go to Heaven. Right after he cut out my grace and threw me to earth."

"What, seriously?"

"Apparently he wants to hear my story. Take another left here, this should be the place."

"Still, if I were him, I'd want you about as far away from me as possible."

Castiel shrugged. "There's not a whole lot of harm a human soul can do in Heaven. It's meant to be your paradise. It might be nice to have a rest, after everything."

Dean eyed him uneasily. "Okay, well, not until the job's done, Sylvia Plath."

The neighborhood they'd come to seemed to be somewhere in the upper-middle class. The homes were cookie-cutter copies of one another, with minivans in the driveway. It was a Saturday afternoon dragging on through the last of the summer heat.

"Something seem a little off to you?" he muttered to Cas.

"Nobody's outside. Or checking the unfamiliar car in the neighborhood."

Dean parked, turning in his seat to look back down the street. "Maybe the kids are all inside playing video games?"

"There're stacks of newspapers in these yards. Nobody's collected them in at least two days."

"Yeah. You know I'm starting to think there might be something here," Dean said, eyeing the nearest house.

They found the front door unlocked. This was probably the third or fourth clue in a long line of tap-dancing clues that there was something wrong, here. No one had responded to knocking or ringing the doorbell, but there were two cars in the driveway. After one more glance around the empty street, Dean got his gun out and at the ready as they entered the house.

It wasn't a very large house. Not many places for someone to hide. The door entered on a small entryway, with a hall leading deeper in the house and a stairway on the right. He checked the study to the left on the way down the hall and found a stack of printed lost-pet posters but little else. At the end of the hall there was a kitchen nook and dining area to the left, and a larger den to the right. Patio doors led to a small backyard. The windows were large, letting in the lazy afternoon sunlight. Dust motes were settling over small children's toys, scattered about the room.

There was a smell. Corruption. Sweet, somehow. With an underlying stink. Sulfur. On the kitchen nook the bowl of fruit was starting to show its age. But that wasn't where the scent was coming from. Dean could hear Cas at his back, covering him, as he moved into the den. There was a large couch acting as a kind of divider, with an entertainment system set up over the mantle. It had probably been a gift, a big flat-screen like that. There were paperbacks and puzzle books in stacks on the end-tables. On the couch there was an open coloring book and a handful of crayons.

In the middle of the room, Dean found the family. A young couple. Two kids. Little girls, from the looks of it. The beige carpet was maroon under them; flat, hard with the dried blood. There were symbols around the bodies, made from their blood. Demonic. Summoning spell, from the looks of it. The father's throat had been slashed in one clean movement. Maybe they'd gotten him from behind. While he was sitting on the couch with one of his daughters. The mother was… butchered. That was the only word for it. She was turned slightly, her arms around her girls. There were knife wounds on her forearms, all across the visible parts of her back. Her knuckles were skinned raw. Like uncooked hamburgers. She'd fought. It hadn't been enough. Her entrails were coils on the carpet, one of them wrapped around one of the—

"Shit," Dean choked, looking away. He fumbled out his phone, trying to breathe through his mouth as he stumbled back down the hallway. He couldn't breathe in this fucking house. He heard Cas following as he burst back out the front door and hit the speed-dial on his phone. "Sammy! Get down here, we've got bodies. It's demonic there're… I don't know, they might've gotten the whole neighborhood… No, just hurry. Shit," he repeated when they hung up. He rested his head against the doorframe, his eyes screwed shut. Dead adults he dealt with on a regular basis. It was part of the job. But kids?

"If the demons had already killed and moved on, then what were the demonic readings coming from?"

How was Cas still functioning so normally? Dean guessed that after your first thousand years or so, you start being able to take these things in stride. He'd probably seen plenty of disembowelments over the course of human history. "I, uh, I don't know," Dean said, hoarsely, trying to kick his brain back into gear. He cleared his throat and ran a sleeve under his nose. "Maybe… maybe Charlie cranked the juice on the weird-ar a little too high and it's showing after-effects, too. Like the lingering sulfur."

Dean looked back down the empty street and felt like he might actually be ill. All those untouched newspapers on the cookie-cutter front lawns, as far as the eye could see. And no one had made any missing person reports. "They must have taken out enough of these houses that no one raised the alarm."

"Coordinated," Castiel agreed. "They might have started with possessing a family member or two to eliminate the pets."

"Why the pets?"

"Well. With the dogs, it might have been to keep them from raising the alarm or protecting their masters. The cats were probably killed for spite. Or ritual."

"How many demons are we talking about, here?"

"Possibly a small militia."

Too many. That's what it came down to. Too damned many. Across the street Dean could see another kid's bike. Maybe she'd been friends with the little girls who'd lived in this house.

"Dean…"

"What?" he snapped, scrubbing at his eyes.

"The curtain on that window across the street. It just moved."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I expect more gritty stuff to come. This is a general warning for the squeamish.
> 
> Let me know what you think.


	7. Killer Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: Grit and gore. I might've gotten a bit carried away.
> 
> I'd also like to warn of a major character death. Well. I say "death." You guys watch the show (hopefully). It's pretty much always "death" with great big quotation marks. Anyway, just so YOU know.

"Dean, wait."

He obviously wasn't thinking clearly. When Cas had told him there was someone across the street, watching them, he'd felt a red haze creep over his vision. His breath sounded too loud in his own ears as he'd strode over, purposefully, weapon at the ready again.

"One of those demonic sons of bitches could be in there and you want me to _wait?_ "

"It could be one," Castiel agreed. "Or a small army. Or none at all, if it was the wind. In any case, we should wait for Sam and Charlie to arrive as backup."

"After what they _did_?" Dean hissed at him. "You want me to just let it _get away_?"

"This isn't your fault, Dean," Castiel said quietly, his expression compassionate.

"Shut up."

"Killing yourself through recklessness won't—"

Dean slammed the door open, leading with his weapon. The smell in the house assaulted him, murder and sulfur wrapped up in bodily fluids. They were all just _there_ , the living room scattered with body parts. Except for one fresh corpse. An older man, who had been bound to an armchair. His throat torn open, the blood flow barely a trickle now. His heart had stopped so it was no longer pumping, only leaking. There was an arterial spray pattern across the floor, uninterrupted—his killer had stood behind him. But why wait to kill the old man when the rest of the family looked days gone?

Dean ventured further, just rounding the corner when he saw a figure. It cowered at his approach, an adolescent voice cracking. "Please don't hurt me!"

It was an older teenage boy. Kind of stringy, stretched out, like they get at that age. He'd crouched down with his hands behind his back without being told, his face screwed up in agony and misery.

"Are you one of them?" he asked. "Are you here to kill me, too?"

"No," Castiel began, "we're—"

"This your family?" Dean interrupted, not lowering his gun. "Then how'd you survive?"

"I… I hid. I was scared. I hid. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please don't kill me."

"Dean, I don't think he's—"

Well Castiel's instincts were hardly the gold standard. Dean fished around in his jacket, finding the flask of holy water. He tossed it to the kid, saying, "Take a swig of that and then we'll talk."

"W-what is it?"

"It's for your health. Just drink it."

The kid fumbled it with one hand, unscrewing the top. He held it up, meeting Dean's eyes… as he tipped the flask's contents onto the floor.

"Oops," the kid smiled, dropping the act. His other hand came from behind his back clutching a large carving knife, still slick with the old man's blood.

"You do all of this?" Dean asked, his voice level.

"Mm… some of it. The last of it, anyway. Killed the little ones days ago. Amazing what you can convince someone to bargain for, tragedy like that."

"You made deals with them? But you're not supposed to collect—"

"For ten years? Wake up and smell the sulfur, moron. Who makes contracts for that long when they don't _need_ to?"

"If you convinced the parents to sell their souls, their lives, for their children," Castiel said, his voice shaking a little, "then why are the children still _dead?_ "

"Oh, we brought them back," the demon said, regaining its feet. "But they didn't say anything about killing them again." It tilted its head, smiling a mouthful of braces. Poor kid had died without getting his damned braces taken off. "Kind of like I'm gonna kill the two of you."

The kid only made it another step before Dean plunged the demon-killing blade into its chest. He watched the inner fire burn the last of the life out of its eyes before letting the body drop to the floor.

"They're making deals? That's what this is all about? What the hell for?"

"New recruits?" Castiel suggested, moving further into the house. "Trying to drag as many as they can into the pit. Corner the loved ones, make them sign over their souls. It's… unfortunately effective. These people look like they were torn apart by hellhounds. I assume that means they made a deal. A very… short-lived contract, I gather."

Dean hadn't ever really been a parent—not in the traditional sense, unless you counted Ben or that Amazon-warrior monster—but he guessed he understood the impulse. If the crossroads demon who'd given him Sammy back had demanded his life then and there, Dean honestly wasn't sure he would have turned it down. Wasn't that essentially what his own father had done for him?

"Dean," Castiel said urgently, snapping him out of his reverie. "There's a cup, here, filled with blood. He must have just been in contact with someone."

"That's why he saved grandpa for last," Dean cursed. "So who was he talking to?"

Dean only had time to hear the footstep behind him and remember that they hadn't closed the front door on entry before he felt the familiar tug of a supernatural energy. He flew across the room and hit the wall, hard. He blinked stars out of his vision, feeling blood slip down his neck and soak into his collar. Castiel had run at his attacker, but had met a similar fate as Dean, crashing hard into the heavy wood dining table where he crumpled up like a swatted insect.

"Hello, boys," Abaddon cooed.

Dean, for once, decided that the witty remarks could wait. His vision was still doubled when he fired the first shot into Abaddon's arm. The expectation had been that the devil's trap carved on the bullet should at least keep her immobile long enough for them to get back on their feet. But his aim was off: the bullet ripped right through her without embedding along the way.

He didn't get a second shot. She knocked the gun flying, grabbing hold of his hair to slam his head back into the wall again.

"You _bitch_."

"What's the matter, Dean? Didn't bring angel backup this time around?" She wrenched his hair harder, digging her nails into the cut she could feel in his scalp. "And you didn't bring Crowley like I asked, either. You're turning intoa disappointment, Dean."

"You're gonna be _real_ disappointed when I stick my knife through your skull," Dean slurred. He felt nauseous. At this point he couldn't tell whether it was just the stench in the house or if he actually had a concussion. He hissed in pain, everything coming in a little bit sharper, when she clawed his head wound again.

Her other hand had latched onto his jaw, tilting his face up to hers. "I'm getting real tired of that smart mouth of yours, Winchester. I warned you about that, the last time I saw you."

Red. All he could see was red. Her bright red hair. Her full red lips. Red on her nails and red on the walls. Her hand trailing down to his shirt, pulling the collar aside, red on black on skin. A red line, trailing blood, as she carved a red nail through the tattoo's protective edges.

"Stop," he choked, trying to push her away. He felt weak and sick, his stomach clenching involuntarily. When had he gotten so weak? Or was it that he'd always been weak? Always someone there to save him. He called out desperately, " _Cas!_ "

Abaddon shushed him, grabbing his jaw again. "We're going to have so much fun together," she promised him. Smiling around red lips. Red hair for the red queen. Red as roses as blood as hearts as Hell.

Castiel was only just sitting up, disoriented. He had time to take in Abaddon's body, lying sprawled on the floor as Dean got back to his feet. She was still and lifeless, slowly leaking fluids from her recent wounds.

Dean was approaching him, his eyes a bit distant. There was blood on his collar. But he was smiling, so all must be well. Everything would be all right so long as Dean was there. Castiel started to climb to his feet, but Dean put a hand on his shoulder, keeping him seated. Still smiling, kindly. He'd bent down a bit, hands now on both of Castiel's shoulders, like a peculiar embrace.

"Dean?" Castiel said, uncertainly.

"Oh. Not quite, baby."

Castiel's neck snapped cleanly. He hadn't offered any sort of defense, still sitting there, trusting as a little lamb. Once it was over Abaddon almost wished she'd stopped to savor the look of trust turning sour in his bright blue eyes. But she'd already lingered here too long. She had what she needed from Dean's memories about where they'd stashed Crowley away. And she knew the cavalry was on the way: that angel, for one. She could feel Dean was already stirring back to life in this body. So. Better to retreat, now.

Besides. She'd promised Dean a ride with this body. It was time she started living up to those promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry when did I become such an awful human being I've brought dishonor on my moose


	8. More Headaches

Sam thought he'd been prepared for the worst. Dean had sounded rattled on the phone when he'd mentioned the bodies. So it had to be worse than their usual fare, which could get pretty bad. Charlie had driven her car as quickly as she could to the first neighborhood that had been on their checklist. It hadn't crossed his mind that they could be too late already. Bad things happened, it was a part of the job, but Dean could handle it until they arrived.

Even with his arm over his nose, the smell was almost overpowering. His eyes were watering, it was so bad. Sam had Charlie watching the street, ostensibly to keep an eye out for prowling demons. He was glad she'd acquiesced to the suggestion so readily, now. This wasn't the kind of thing anyone should have to see. He tried to move silently over the linoleum. His shoes kept making rasping coughs as they tore free from the tacky blood. Sam was trying to take inventory of his surroundings. Counting the bodies. Well. The body _parts._ Old kills, stale, except for the old man, who was intact. Sam moved past them, spotting three more bodies in the dining area. One was a teenager, but the other two…

"Cas?" he whispered, loudly. The angle of the neck was wrong. There was no movement of the chest. But Sam was having trouble focusing. That other body, the redhead, with her pale skin and leather clothes. That couldn't be Abaddon—if Dean had killed her, than where was he? Why wasn't he gloating? Sam kept his gun trained on the body as he moved to Castiel, checking for a pulse. "Cas? Jesus, _Cas?_ "

Sam's posture suddenly changed as his eyes momentarily flared with blue. His frantic expression smoothed to one of mere concern. He put the gun down and turned his attention completely away from the other body. An angel had nothing to fear from a demon's empty meatsuit.

He studied Castiel's injury, seeing the clean force that was used to break the neck. There was something almost elegant in the kill. His expression did not alter by much. Perhaps it tended towards annoyance. Or wrath. He seemed to be weighing his options, his head cocking slightly to the side as though he listened for something.

"Not yet?" he murmured.

Delicately, he took Castiel's head in his hands, setting it straighter, feeling for further damage. His touch was careful, but ultimately impersonal. Calculating.

"Not yet."

When Castiel's eyes opened, it was on the wrong Winchester. His throat felt scratchy. Well, scratchier than usual. There was a taste in his mouth, almost metallic, almost medicinal, almost ozone. Something bright and sharp and cold. What was that—something familiar. He touched his throat, and there was no pain. But there was the memory of pain, so sharp and certain he almost flinched from it.

"Cas," Sam said in relief, scrambling to pick his gun up. Why had he set his gun down? Didn't he know it wasn't safe, here? "You're okay? What happened? Where's Dean?"

"She… took him. Abaddon. She must have corrupted his anti-possession warding. And then she…" Castiel glanced up at him and quickly away, covering the pause with a groan as he staggered to his feet. "She knocked me out."

"Dean's phones are here. She must've dumped them. I can't track him through GPS."

"She'll likely be in contact with us again, to ransom him."

"For Crowley," Sam guessed, his jaw clenching. "The challenger to her throne."

"Uh, S-Sam?" Charlie called from outside.

"Don't come in here!" Sam said, immediately, coming to meet her at the doorway. She had her phone by her ear, a gun in the other hand as she kept her eyes fixed on the empty street.

"It's… It's Kevin, he said the map's acting funny. The demon markers, they're… lighting up all around the bunker. He says it looks like they're flooding in."

"Abaddon," Castiel stated. "She must have used Dean to find out where you were keeping Crowley."

"Crowley? As in Crowley, the King of Hell? You were keeping _him_ in your ultra-secret Winchester hideout?" The rest of what he said filtered in, and she looked around a little more frantically. "Where _is_ Dean?"

"The Knight of Hell, Abaddon, has him," Sam said, a little impatiently.

"H-how? I though the anti-possession tattoos…?"

"Well apparently she found a way. She wants Crowley, and she knows that we have him. And I guess now she knows how she's going to get him." Sam took long strides to the Impala, thankful at least that it hadn't been tainted with that demon bitch's presence.

Castiel followed him, watching through narrowed eyes. "She can't enter the bunker. It's too heavily warded. You said it took hours of preparation just to get Crowley inside without killing him." Sam was looking for the spare keys while Cas stood at the open car door. Charlie was a pace or two back, watching on with wide eyes. "You can't be thinking of just handing him over to her," Castiel said, quietly.

Sam started the car, giving Cas a flat look. "Move."

"We have the tactical advantage. She needs our assistance and she wouldn't do anything to jeopardize the deal by hurting her hostage—"

"Get out of the way."

"You're panicked. You need to take a moment and think through this. The area is _flooded_ with demons. You'll be running into another trap."

"You just said she needs our help to get inside!"

Castiel shook his head. "She knows Kevin's already there. And she only needs one person to turn Crowley over. Sam, don't give her another bargaining chip." He watched Sam processing the information. Sam was intelligent; his emotions may cloud his judgment where his brother was concerned, but he could still be reasoned with. "Charlie," Cas said, turning his attention to her, "does Kevin see any shift in the angels' distribution on the map?"

She relayed the question and gave a shaky nod. "A little, yeah. Not a lot, but pretty sudden activity cropping up in the area in Kansas."

Sam huffed, rubbing his palm into his eye. "That's just what we need, more headaches."

"Not necessarily. That much demonic activity wouldn't go unnoticed. The angels who would respond to that, against the tide of evil, are more likely to be the ones that stayed true to our original calling: Protecting our Father's creation."

"So they might be on our side?" Charlie asked, hopefully.

"They might be… more amenable to helping us. And less likely to want to murder me on sight. Hopefully. If we could get even one to listen to us, that might be enough to clear a path and let us get back to the bunker."

"Why, what's the point? Charlie, just tell Kevin to let Crowley go."

"You do that and your brother's as good as dead," Castiel snapped. "We need a plan. At the very least we would need to make the exchange somewhere on our terms. The best way to affect that would be to get back into the bunker."

" _How_? You just said it was a trap."

"There's no, like, secret entrance?" Charlie asked. "I'd think a secret bunker would have a secret entrance. The batcave had a secret entrance."

"Sort of. The garage lets out on a back road. But Dean knew about that."

"So Abaddon will know," Castiel surmised. "Ask Kevin to try to find blueprints for the compound; there might be other means of egress, hidden. Otherwise, we need to start planning a counterattack. They'll be watching the interstate. We should leave, now, before others show up, and get as close as we can before we try attempting contact with angels in the region."

"All right, good," Sam said, relieved to have some sort of plan that put them in motion. "Hop in."

"No, I'll ride with Charlie. I'll… stay on the phone with Kevin for any further developments."

Sam didn't question this, too intent on getting on the road and eventually back to Dean. He also didn't notice the narrow look Castiel gave him, suspicion and concern warring with one another before he turned away.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? See? Cas is fine now, so don't hurt me.
> 
> Boy he dies a lot. Like, canonically, poor guy can't catch a break.
> 
> Should be getting some Crowley in here, in the next chapter or three. I know I promised him when I began this fic, and he'll definitely be factoring in soon. Besides some others...
> 
> Also, Dean will be back. Though I can't promise how many pieces he'll be in. (Kidding! ...Mostly.)
> 
> Reviews would be very welcome!


	9. Charlie's Angels

It felt like they'd been in this field for forever.

It had taken a lot longer to drive back, taking side roads and avoiding anything that looked like a populated area. Sunset had come and gone. Kevin really hadn't been much help. Unfortunately, their map only gave general impressions of activity. Castiel was starting to regret not having submitted to staying behind at the "home office." If Charlie had stayed behind, she might have been able to find a way to upload a more detailed map. If Cas had stayed behind, maybe Sam would have been with Dean when Abaddon attacked. And maybe then Dean would have been safe. But there was no use in thinking like that. They'd just have to deal with things as they were. And the way things were, the map was little more than a general hint for activity. Kevin couldn't warn them, for instance, of the ambush that had been waiting at the Kansas border.

Sam had been fighting exhaustion for hours, pinching himself as he drove, just to keep his eyes on the road. When the demons attacked, driving a state trooper's car, his reaction time was slowed, barely swerving in time to avoid being t-boned. The brakes had shrieked as he'd wrenched the wheel; if Dean had been there—the real Dean—he would have torn Sam a new one for treating his car like that.

Sam had gone off the road, struggling not to let the car flip, finally coming to a shaking halt. By this time the demons had surrounded the car, one of them yanking his door open. They'd possessed a pair of cops and what looked like an aging waitress. They made kind of a funny trio, the two buff guys with the rather overweight woman. Normally, Sam might have been able to take out at least one of them. But there was something off. He felt so _tired_. Kind of worn through. It was only as he was scrabbling for the demon-killing blade that he remembered Dean had had it on him when Abaddon had taken possession. Sam's gun had been sitting in the passenger seat next to him, completely out of reach, now. If Charlie hadn't been driving so close behind, Sam wasn't quite certain what would have happened. As it was, he only had time to wrench out of the demon's grip and roll away from the bright flare of her headlights before she rolled over one of them. The heavy impact didn't kill it, but it was certainly slowed down. What _should_ have killed it was when Castiel pulled it out from under the car and stabbed it with the angel blade.

Oh it hurt the demon. It didn't seem to be able to smoke out of its meatsuit, and there was a bright flare in its mouth and eyes. But it wasn't dead. It didn't even stop moving, entirely.

"What's going on? What's it doing?" Charlie asked, coming out of the car.

The other demons didn't really seem to like the odds anymore, now that Sam wasn't alone. They opened their mouths wide to the sky. Black smoke streamed out, rippling across the dark sky. Their meatsuits dropped, dead or unconscious.

"I don't understand," Castiel said, staring at their writhing captive.

"Stab it again!" Charlie suggested.

"I fail to see how that would make a difference."

The demon was screaming obscenities at this point, trying to pull the angel blade free. At a loss, Castiel began to chant the exorcism rite, keeping the demon pinned with the blade until he'd finished. Even then he continued to stare at the body in disquiet. "That… should not have happened."

"Is it because you're… you know, fallen?" Charlie asked, trying to be delicate. "I m-mean I'm sure it's natural if you're, um, not quite up to the task?"

He gave Charlie a flat look. "That should not matter. The blade's power is granted through Heaven, but not through me. At one point Sam… Sam? Where is he?"

"I'm okay! I'm okay," Sam was groaning, clambering to his feet. He'd already tried once to get up after he'd rolled out of the way of the car, but he'd been too dizzy.

"Um, Sam, you don't look so good…"

"We've got to keep driving. The ones that smoked out will be getting reinforcements."

Castiel assessed him. He was pale and shaking, hardly keeping his feet. He hadn't exactly looked well since Castiel had "awoken," but now he looked like he was a sneeze away from collapsing. Besides that, their only weapon for quickly dispatching demons seemed to be… malfunctioning. At least Charlie appeared to be holding up fairly well. But Castiel knew she hadn't been trained for full war conditions. He wasn't even sure if they could withstand another minor attack, as they stood. They needed to regroup. He needed to… what was the phrase? Get a lid on this.

"I'll drive. Get in the back and… sleep it off."

"What are you talking about? I said I'm fine."

"We don't have time for this." He looked around at the bodies. Evidence. A future crime scene. Well, no time to do anything with them, now. He retrieved his blade, for whatever good it would do them.

"You've had _one_ driving lesson."

"It will have to suffice," he said solidly, getting into the driver's seat to end the argument.

After Castiel accidentally reversed over the bodies—twice—they got back on the road fairly quickly. Sam had mumbled a few initial worries and then had passed out in the passenger seat. Castiel reached over once to check his pulse, but since he'd nearly gone off the road when he'd taken his eyes away, he decided to leave it alone. They'd driven for a few hours in the general direction of Lebanon before they'd found this field. This, Castiel decided, would have to do.

"So, what, we're just supposed to hold hands, form a prayer circle?" Charlie asked, a little skeptically. "Hope one of the good angels turns up?"

"I'm… unfamiliar with this end of the process. But Dean usually prays to me in solitude?"

"I think I read that fanfic."

"If you could focus," he said, giving her a stern look.

Charlie's eyes slid to the Impala. "What about Sam? Is he okay?"

"He's… not well," Castiel decided, not wanting to voice his suspicions yet. "But it's nothing we can help with. Leave him be."

So this was them. Waiting it out in a field. It felt exposed out here. And cold. Charlie had first tried to take her cues from Castiel. He'd sat on the Impala's hood, his head bent as he spoke quietly to the air, his breath misting in front of him. Charlie had mirrored him, sitting on her beat-up yellow Beetle, looking at the stars. Trying to… well, commune, she guessed. She wasn't sure she was doing it right. And her ass was getting numb from the cold metal of the car. Eventually she admitted defeat and got back in the car to continue praying. Or whatever it was she was doing.

Castiel had wandered off into the field. Presumably he was still praying. Charlie was starting to think they were wasting their time. Even if by some miracle an angel was willing to help them, she wasn't sure how much help it would be against this Knight of Hell. She sounded like a pretty tough customer. Add the fact that she was apparently taking Dean's body for a joyride, and Charlie just didn't see this ending well. It was one thing to read about all the crap the Winchesters had survived; living through it, everything seemed a lot less certain.

At some point her prayers had turned into idle daydreams, and it was only after the dawn's light filtered over her eyelids that Charlie realized she must have fallen asleep. The windows were all fogged up and it was still pretty cold in the car. The morning air promised heat later in the day. Charlie scrubbed the sleep out of her eyes, feeling a little guilty as she saw Castiel trudging back towards her across the field. His features were haggard, a combination of sleep deprivation and sorrow. There were bits of grass on him, and dirt on his knees from when he'd knelt in supplication. The scent of earth clung to him, somehow almost a clean smell.

"I don't know how humans do it," he was muttering darkly. "Living with this… silence."

They could hear the distant rumble of a car. This was a country road, probably infrequently used, but there were houses out here. Small homesteads. The farmers would be up with the dawn, if nothing else. Charlie wasn't real clear on the details, but this seemed around the right time of year that they'd be out harvesting.

"So now what?"

"I'm not sure. Without aid, we'll have to break through their ranks as best we can. With what tools we have at hand. A thousand pounds of moving vehicle seems to disable them fairly handily."

"Um. I'm not sure I'm comfortable with how much vehicular manslaughter that might entail. I mean I can't really tell at a glance which people are possessed and which ones are just jaywalkers who decided to play Frogger with their lives."

"I see your point." Castiel leaned against her car, staring back across the fields. Birds were calling out into the sky, waking up with the sun. It was going to be a gorgeous day, and it would have been nice to have enjoyed it.

They were still standing there when the cop car came into view and slowed beside their vehicles. Charlie was immediately on edge when the little blonde woman got out, raising her hand in greeting as she approached.

"You do look desperate," she said with a smile.

Castiel had straightened from the car, giving her a searching look as he moved forward a pace. "You're an angel."

"Muriel. I didn't pick the outfit," she added, gesturing to herself. She studied them for another moment before the smile dropped, suddenly. "Castiel?" She stepped back, her eyes flicking to the Impala and back to her own vehicle. Well, Charlie allowed, at least she hadn't immediately gone to smite him.

"No, please wait," Cas tried to stall her. "Hear me out."

"I have work to do," she said, avoiding eye contact. "This land is overrun with demons. Every moment I spend here is a moment wasted."

"Not necessarily. I know why they're here."

Her look was sharp. "This is another one of _your_ doing?"

Castiel's shoulders slumped with a sigh, gazing at her, sadly. He glanced back at the field briefly before making a small gesture. "Will you walk with me? Let me try to explain?" From the set of her jaw, she actually looked like she might be considering just smiting him and being done with it. He had to trust that she would be reasonable, or at the very least curious. She had to have had a somewhat firm constitution, if she had so-far refrained from joining either of the angelic factions.

At last Muriel gave a grudging nod. She followed him out while Charlie went to try to rouse Sam. It wasn't an easy sell, convincing Muriel. She carried herself stiffly, keeping more than arm's width from Castiel as they picked their way across the grass. "You wish to confirm Abaddon's rule? Deliver her rival to her?" she interrupted at one point.

Castiel shook his head, "I'm not sure what we can do. With this unabated slaughter… She's not honoring the tenuous balance of the last regime. But we cannot abandon our friend, either."

"I can see you're in a difficult position," Muriel conceded. She seemed to be weighing something in her mind as she looked at him. "What do you need?"

"A path," he said, immediately. "If we can just get to Crowley, we'll be in a better position to negotiate. Or find another way out of this."

"Even if we pretend for a moment that I agree to help you, I'm not sure how much assistance I can be," she admitted. "The Fall… I survived with less injury than many. But I have been weakened." She shook her head, looking frustrated. "Many things are not as they once were. My blade…" Muriel met his eyes, looking for understanding. "Not just my blade, but others—they say it is the work of Heaven being undone."

"What do you mean, undone?"

"Demons, once purified, coming back. As if the time had run back on them. Some of our brothers, lost in the wars—they've been saying some of them have come back. That the wars will only start up again, worse than before. I've heard rumors that the Cage has been opened. Others say it was just the prisons of Heaven that let loose their captives. Some are saying the human souls are having trouble even finding Heaven anymore. Even purification, it feels _different_. It feels like Heaven is pulling away. It's like we're all still Falling."

"I'm sorry," Castiel said, feeling helpless in the face of her obvious distress. "I wish I could help. I have been trying to help. To reverse Metatron's spell."

Muriel crossed her arms over her chest, turning slightly from him. "I want to believe you, Castiel."

She let out a breath, looking back towards where Sam and Charlie were standing. Charlie was vaguely gesturing in their direction, the words indecipherable from a distance, before she put out a hand to stop him from coming towards them.

"Anyway, why do you ask for my help," Muriel inquired, "if you already have angelic assistance?"

Castiel felt a sick lurch inside at this confirmation. He hadn't wanted to believe. But then, he wasn't sure what he had been expecting otherwise. He stepped in closer to Muriel, lowering his voice. "Do you recognize him?"

A furrow developed between her brows as she looked back to study Sam again. "No. But I know he's old. One of the first." She shook her head, a dismissal. "And long before my time."

There was a kind of sadness in Castiel's smile, looking at her. "You were one of my younger sisters."

Muriel met his gaze, holding it. This little human vessel containing that which was once an angel. She could still almost see him. As he used to be.

Ultimately it was too much for her. Her arms dropped to her sides, a sigh escaping her as she submitted. "Am. I _am_ , still, one of your younger sisters. I will help you, Castiel. Just tell me what I need to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know she wasn't around for long, but I liked Muriel. She was one of the few angels who didn't immediately come off as being a dick. I'm sorry they killed her off. Anyway, I figured if there were any angels likely to respond to this situation, she'd be one.
> 
> The work of Heaven being undone is going to get more important as time goes on, but there's something extra special that ought to be coming in the next chapter (I hope!).
> 
> Okay, I didn't want to make Sammy such a sick moose; it's just kind of turning out that way. It's also kind of relevant to the plot. He shouldn't be passing out too much more, though. (And hey, at least I'm not giving him as many knocks to the head as the show did.)
> 
> Dean is absolutely out there. Um. I'm not sure if we really want to know exactly what it is he's doing right now, though. Demons are not nice. They do not do nice things. Abaddon is especially not nice. I may want to leave it at that if I don't want to crank this up to, like, a tortureporn fic. There will be a few more details when the time is right, but actually following Dean's activities is not something I plan on doing.
> 
> Reviews are always appreciated!


	10. Scoobies

They were lucky that Sam had become familiar with the layout of the area near the bunker. He'd had a few months of morning runs to orient himself with the countryside, finding his favorite routes around. As it turned out, most of the land immediately surrounding the bunker had been bought up by the Men of Letters long ago, to keep the area from being developed. This was to their benefit right now as there were less people in the vicinity to be possibly possessed. There was an abandoned barn only about five miles as the crow flies from the bunker entrance, and this is where they decided to stash the Impala—being too conspicuous under present circumstances—and regroup.

"I'm not sure how well this is going to work," Sam said. "I mean, no offense, Muriel, it's great that you have our backs, but who's to say there won't just be a wall of demons at the bunker entrance?"

"That may be the case, but I doubt it somewhat. The demons I encountered before, when I questioned them for why they'd come here, none of them mentioned you or your compound in particular. They just said they'd been stationed in the area to keep a lookout."

"Why wouldn't Abaddon tell them?" Charlie asked. "I mean if she just piled the demons at the bunker, it'd pretty much be game over. We'd have to deal."

"I don't know. Maybe she's not real sure of their loyalty," Sam reasoned. "They're all for causing mayhem, but maybe they're not so keen on the new regime. If it was an actual choice between Abaddon and Crowley…"

Castiel said, "There may already be division in her ranks."

"Spurring her to take this action." Muriel was frowning, shaking her head. "I still do not think you should be playing into her hands like this."

"Let's just take one step at a time," Sam temporized. "We can strategize when we're not such sitting ducks."

"Flying ducks _are_ much harder to hit," Castiel agreed, feeling quite knowledgeable on this subject, now. Though he still thought the game system might have been cheating.

"Hey, speaking of strategy," Charlie went to her trunk, "I've got supplies! Check it out: I've got this tape-recorder looped to play the exorcism rites, bungee cords to keep the weapons from flying out of our hands, spray cans, and check _this_ out!"

"It's a…" Sam hesitated, his face screwing up with the effort to remain politely interested, "…hula hoop?"

Charlie gave an almighty frown, holding the ring of neon pink plastic around herself. She gave it a little shake so they could hear something inside the tubing. "I put salt in it. So the supernatural stuff can't cross over. Someone on the internet suggested it." She gave it an experimental twirl around her waist while the others stared at her silently. "Well it looks stupid if I'm the only one," she grumbled.

"Yeah, I'm sure it'd look a _lot_ less stupid if we all had one."

"It's not a bad idea," Castiel tried to console her as she threw it back in her trunk, glumly.

"I think I'll risk the monsters, thanks," Sam said. "Are we locked and loaded then?"

"Stick close to me," Muriel said, taking the lead.

"Ooh, I'm getting kind of a Buffy vibe from her," Charlie whispered to Castiel as they fell into line.

"A what vibe?"

"I guess that means Sam would be Xander," Charlie went on, ignoring his confusion. "Of course _I'm_ Willow: hot redheaded geek, how did I _not_ see this sooner? Kevin is Giles, since he's back in the library with the research. And, hmm, I guess you'd be…" She suddenly started giggling, trying to suppress it long enough to choke out: "Angel."

They set off overland, scanning the area for activity, crossing over fields and pastures. Kansas, being the flatland it was, gave them a pretty unobstructed view in most directions. At the pace they were going, it would only take a little over an hour to get back to the bunker. They weren't seeing anyone out this way anymore. It almost seemed too easy.

"All right, I think we've got to cross over one more dirt road before we reach the private drive the bunker's on," Sam informed them, pointing off at some small distance.

Charlie had been humming the Scooby-Doo theme song to herself when she glanced over at her walking companion. "Whoa, what's…?"

"A precaution," Castiel returned, sotto voce, pulling his sleeve back down.

"You _carve_ sigils into yourself? That's metal as hell."

"I needed blood," Castiel said stiffly. "And I may need to enact this quickly. Metal has nothing to do with it."

"What's that thing up ahead?" Sam asked, suddenly, drawing them all up short.

As they approached with some caution, Charlie squinted. "Looks like a… bright pink… paint-bomb explosion?"

"Uh-oh, Charlie," Sam said, very seriously, looking at her with concern. "You don't think they… got a stack of your anti-demon hula hoops, do you?"

"I'm afraid it's more serious than that," Muriel said with disquiet as they reached the spot. It did indeed look like someone had lobbed a great big bag of paint at that very spot, and that it had exploded greatly on impact. From this vantage they could see more, dotting the landscape, leading back to the road. "This is angelic work."

"Not an ordinary angel," Castiel said, quietly. "There's a specific class of angels, the Rit Ziem. On the battlefields of heaven they act as… medics. And in some cases as angels of," he gestured at the pink mess, "mercy. To put those beyond repair out of their misery."

It took a few seconds for it to fully click. "Oh ew," Charlie muttered, trying to rub the pink off of her shoe.

"We're looking at a bunch of dead _angels_?" Sam asked.

"No," Muriel said, walking in a small circle around the remains. "There's traces of sulfur, here. This one was a demon. But I don't understand: this wasn't an act of purification. He destroyed the vessel, not the demon. This one," she said, walking to the next pink explosion, "same story." She pointed at the nearest ones, counting off, "And another. Demon, demon, demon… cow?"

"He may be honing in on the pain from those possessed," Castiel suggested. "Trying to grant them peace. If his powers are diminished, it may be that he cannot purify the demons themselves. I imagine he must be drowning in the sounds of those in anguish, here. Perhaps it's made him… unstable, as he's tried to continue his work. He probably is having trouble adapting and differentiating with the flux of emotions. To him, pain is pain. Which might help to explain the cow."

"You're saying there's an angel Kevorkian running around out here?" Sam said, looking absolutely fed-up. "Well that's just great. That's just what we needed right now. Okay, well let's just try to avoid _that_ while we deal with the demon hordes, shall we?"

"We should move quickly," Muriel said. "These are fresh. He's nearby."

"Sam," Castiel caught his shoulder, forcing him to match his pace instead of taking up position next to Muriel again. "You should hang back a little. If anyone's going to attract the attention of the Rit Ziem, it would be you."

"What? I told you, I'm fine."

"You're not. And I'm not just talking about your physical state."

"Then what do you mean?" Sam asked. But there was something else in the look he gave Castiel. Something that might have been caution or calculation. Or neither. It could have been curiosity. Or confusion. The worst part was not knowing. But the whole situation was just untenable. It reeked of lies and betrayal, and it all just _stung_ so much sharper than before he'd become human. Castiel could feel it, a moveable hollowness in his chest that seemed to ring and echo.

This wasn't the time for this. "Your emotions," he said. "Of course. You're obviously upset. Worried about Dean."

The line of tension in Sam's shoulders suddenly abated. "Yeah. I guess you're right."

"I am… sorry, Sam. For letting this happen to Dean. I'm… not much of a hunter, I guess. In fact I believe Dean's exact words were that I sucked at it."

"Well, this one's not your fault," Sam tried to dismiss it.

"Even so. I'm going to fix this," he vowed, suddenly looking at Sam intensely. "Whatever this is. I'll make it right."

"Course we will," Sam agreed, his brow furrowed as he glanced down at him.

The road was where Sam had posited it would be. It was littered with bright pink splotches. Trying to look on the bright side, Charlie pointed out that it was a platoon of demons they themselves wouldn't have to take on. Muriel and Castiel took a dimmer view, exchanging several wordless looks as they continued to uncover more evidence of the Rit Ziem along their own trajectory.

They were in the home stretch, just coming around the bend to the bunker entrance. Of course, this was where the encounter would take place. It was difficult to tell whether they had been actively targeted, or whether the angel had been on its way to the bunker, perhaps attracted to the emotional pain of a young prophet still mourning the loss of his mother, or maybe one partially-cleansed king of Hell in their dungeon. Whatever had brought it, it was here now. Covered in the flash-spray of its special brand of smiting. The vessel looked like it was starting to show wear, perhaps from too much angelic energy being forced through it all at once.

"Ephraim," Muriel said, her voice tight. She stepped forward slowly while the others tried to edge around her to get to the bunker. Sam felt just a little silly, hiding behind the tiny woman, but at least he had company. If anything, Castiel was the one really trying to push the three of them out of harm's way to just let the angels duke it out.

"Muriel," the other nodded. There was something a little unhinged about him. His head cocked to the side as he stepped closer, his attention solely on her. The others had nearly circled around him by now, hoping their luck would hold out. "Sister, you're injured."

"So heal me," she said, tightly, looking like she'd actually rather he didn't get anywhere near her.

He nodded, vaguely, his attention suddenly snapping to Sam. "Brother, you're injured."

Sam jolted like he'd been shocked with electricity, shrinking back a bit as the angel continued to stare at him. "Wh—? I…"

"He's ill. It will pass," Castiel interjected, pushing Sam towards the bunker doors. "You're taking this too far, Ephraim."

"Castiel," Ephraim breathed, the wet gleam in his eyes getting brighter. When he stepped forward Cas took a step away, drawing his attention further from where Sam and Charlie were escaping. "So you're what I've been hearing. You have no idea how loud it is. All that pain…"

"I don't require your assistance," Castiel interjected, fiddling with his sleeve. He sent a quick look of apology towards Muriel and impatiently gestured for Sam and Charlie to get further away. Especially Sam.

"It will be over soon," Ephraim promised. "I'll take the pain away."

Castiel continued to back away. They weren't nearly far enough away, and Sam looked like he wanted to come back. To try to save him. Even this, this feeling of loyalty, was another pang in his chest. Not exactly pain, but a close cousin. It was this nuance that Ephraim couldn't understand. "Pain is a part of living. A necessary part. It alerts you to injury, so you can tend and heal. It points you to torn relationships, so you can mend and reconcile. And not all pain is bad."

"Do you hear yourself? This human living is perverting your thinking."

"It's expanded my thinking. Living as a human is harsher. Everything's sharper, deeper, broader. There's pain, but only because there's greater passion. Sometimes it feels like there's no space between where one ends and the other begins, and maybe that's because they come from the same source: embedded in the impulse for survival, and for kinship."

"Humans are imperfect," Ephraim said, sounding so reasonable. "Their most basic instinct is to destroy themselves. You've already chosen death."

"I want," Castiel snapped, "to live."

He yanked down his sleeve to expose the angel-banishing sigil he'd carved into his arm on the walk over. The blood had dried by adhering to his sleeve, so his action ripped the scab open anew to let the blood flow free. Ephraim had a moment to look surprised before he—and Muriel—vanished in a blaze of blinding light.

"Sam?" Castiel called immediately, relieved to see he'd been out of range of the blast after all. "He shouldn't be able to find his way back for at least some time. Their wings are gone."

"Where'd they go? I thought they got blasted back to Heaven when you do that?"

Castiel decided that just wasn't going to be his problem right now. "I'm not sure. Away."

"Poor Muriel," Charlie said, looking a little forlorn. "What's a Scooby gang without their Buffy?"

They decided to quickly get into the bunker before anything worse could happen to them. It was almost a miracle they'd actually made it back here, more or less in one piece. Charlie broke off immediately to go continue improving the weird-ar—what a dumb name, they had to stop letting Dean name things, ugh, this was the Jefferson Starships all over again—while Sam and Cas went to find Kevin. They'd been one of contact with him for a few hours, holding radio silence while they tried to get back as quietly as possible. Kevin should have been safe enough in there, anyway, holed up alone behind all those wards.

What they weren't expecting was that Kevin would have company. A woman with curly brown hair around a round face, short in stature, but somehow she seemed to take up a lot of space. Maybe it was the way she stood, or it could have just been her big personality. She was standing over Kevin when they walked in, her hands on her hips as she looked over his research notes. At their approach she turned, giving a satisfied smile that just strolled across her face and decided to make itself comfortable.

"Meg…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a longer chapter, but this is where I wanted to get to. Toldya Meg would be back!
> 
> Yeah, Muriel was fun but she kind of had to go. Too much of a wildcard in a crisis. This just seemed simplest. But at least she's alive somewhere out there. Probably not too pleased with Cas, but she can get in line.
> 
> Also, okay, I threw in some funny lines for Charlie. But come on, we know she's active online; don't pretend people haven't been suggesting the salt hula hoops. Oh, and she also seems like she'd be a Buffy fan. So, well, now she is one.
> 
> Reviews are always welcome!


	11. Resurrection Club

"You dyed your hair back."

"The blonde look wasn't working for me. You like?"

"But you died," Sam choked. He felt like he should be doing something. Pulling her away from Kevin at least.

"Yes, we established that. Her hair is dyed. You're supposed to compliment them when their appearance changes. Or if you can't think of anything nice to say, then don't mention it at all."

"Not her hair—I mean she _died_ , died. Crowley killed you! And how did you even get in here?"

"Nice, Sam. Really feeling the love."

"I let her in," Kevin said, raising a hand. He looked like he hadn't slept since the last time they'd seen him. "She knocked. I figured you must've sent her."

" _Why?_ "

"I don't know. Because she's an ally? She was there when I met you guys."

"That's not Meg," Sam decided, moving to put himself between the prophet and whatever the hell this was. "Meg's dead. And you know, that wasn't even Meg's body to begin with. Anything could've moved in there."

"You didn't tell me Meg had died," Castiel said, quietly. "When did this happen?"

"When you took off with the tablet. Sorry, we… just didn't think to mention it."

"Ouch," Meg tilted her head, giving Sam a look that made him squirm a little, guiltily. "Seriously? After everything, after I _died_ for you guys, you didn't even think to mention it?"

"We were busy."

"So what do you want me to do to prove I'm me, sport? Hold your hand while you look deep into my black eyes, all while I recount one of our many fond memories together?"

"How'd you even find this place?" Sam said, not budging an inch. "We never told Meg about it or brought her here."

The side of Meg's mouth quirked as she started to mosey along the table, trailing her fingers over the books and scattered papers. "That's an interesting meatsuit Abaddon's wearing. Kinda comfortable and familiar. I think I might've worn its brother." She rolled her shoulders, lolling her head to look up at Sam across the way. The clench of his jaw, little half-step of motion; ooh, he really hadn't liked that.

Reluctantly he said, "Abaddon… damaged his anti-possession tattoo. She wants Crowley."

"I know. Why do you think I'm here, kiddo? She knew I hated that smarmy little prick. Especially given our last little chat together. Didn't expect to come back from that one, to be honest. Or for this meatsuit to still be more or less intact, just as I'd left it. But I figured, why look a gift resurrection in the mouth? See here I was thinking I was going to lie low, maybe find myself a private beach somewhere I could just sit out the next few apocalypses. Done my bit. Time to take it easy. Well, when the Queen of Hell calls, looks like you gotta pick up the blood puddle. Guess she figured you wouldn't be much for playing ball. That's why…" She was reaching into her leather jacket, and from it she pulled the demon-killing blade. The one that had been on Dean, and then—most recently—on Abaddon. Her smile was a brittle little thing, watching them all tense. "…she sent me in as backup. Kill Crowley. Problem solved. She reigns unopposed."

"You…" Sam started forward.

"Ah, ah, hold your moose-hooves. I didn't say I was going to do it. Don't get me wrong: I kind of like her style. But give me a little credit. Why else do you think I'm _telling_ you?"

"Why not?" Castiel asked, his eyes narrowed. "If Crowley did in fact kill you, or attempted to, I would think you would be spurred by revenge."

"Oh Crowley's time is gonna come. And when it does I'm gonna shove this knife so far up his ass he's gonna taste my nail polish. But I don't need Abaddon handing him to me on a little platter like this. And it's not like I want Tweedle Dum over here on my ass for the rest of my life for leaving his brother to rot." She gave Castiel a sharp look. "What's with the smile?"

He gave a sheepish little head bob to the side, as he said in somewhat conspiratorial tones, "You decided not to betray us. Even though it might have been to your advantage to have the Queen of Hell indebted to you. You had plenty of time and opportunity to act before we got here, but you didn't. You're not scared of Sam. You _like_ us."

"Shut up."

"Okay, I don't care how much she _likes_ us. She still didn't explain how the hell she came back. And I'm not convinced it's her—it looked like that angel blade ripped right into her heart."

"An angel blade?" Castiel mused. "Muriel said… the works of Heaven were being undone. One of our blades would have purified her; essentially wiped away the sin and evilness of the twisted remains of her blackened soul."

"Hey!"

"It takes time after the initial contact. By Earth standards, it could take centuries. Given what we know of Meg, I imagine it might take quite a bit longer than most. If the process were interrupted, that could explain her return. She wouldn't be restored enough to enter Heaven as a purified soul."

"Is that what happens?" Kevin asked, looking stunned. "You mean all those demons you guys have been smiting…"

"Demons are still, at their roots, humans. The power of Heaven is forgiveness…" He considered for a moment, adding, "And wrath. But basically forgiveness. Now that demon-blade Meg's wielding, on the other hand: it's not so forgiving."

Sam decided they could all sit around and talk about the metaphysics of dispatching monsters some other time. "Well that's one theory. We still can't really know it's her, and I can't risk her running around like that while we're still trying to find a way to save Dean."

"There might be a way…" Castiel said, stepping towards her. "I can no longer see demons' faces, but I might still be able to recognize the basic energy pattern of her soul. Or what's left of it. Where was the angel blade impact made?"

"First thing's first: gimme back the knife, then we'll talk about her… energies," Sam said, his face twisting on the word like it was a piece of gristle that had gotten stuck in his teeth.

Meg gave a sour little smile, but she slid the knife to him across the table and pulled out a chair to sit down in front of Castiel. She pulled her shirt collar to the side a bit, revealing a large black wound on her chest over her heart. The wound looked like an impact site, with long tendrils of darkness stretching out like cracks across her skin. Castiel paused, putting one hand on her shoulder as though to brace her, before settling his other palm over the injury. Meg grunted in discomfort, squirming a little. "Well if you were gonna feel me up like this, the least you could do is buy me dinner, first."

"Is it her?" Kevin asked. He was standing with his super-soaker at the ready to douse her with holy water, if necessary.

"It's demonic. But… clearly the purification process had begun. There's damage, here." He looked at her a little more sharply. "Can you leave that vessel?"

She sulked, avoiding eye contact. "What's the matter, Clarence, don't like my outfit anymore? And here I thought you were all about that blah-blah inner beauty crap."

"Answer the question," Sam snapped.

Meg glared, finally stating, "No. I can't smoke out. Are we done here? Did I pass your test? Unless you wanna move your hand down a little further, Clarence, and give 'em a _real_ show." She rolled her shoulders suggestively, arching her back a bit. Sam cleared his throat, loudly.

"It's her," Castiel confirmed, letting go of her for the most part, but allowing his hand to linger on her shoulder a moment. "And she's given us a useful tool."

"It won't kill Abaddon, but it'll slow her down," Sam agreed, a little grudgingly. He still looked uncomfortable, finally asking, "So you saw…?"

"Who, Abaddean?"

Well that portmanteau could just go straight to hell. "How'd he look?"

Meg tilted her head up, her jaw clenching a little in a tight smile. "You really want me to answer that, Sam?" His gaze didn't waver, and finally she dipped her head in acknowledgment, standing up and crossing her arms. "She's riding him pretty rough. Making what I put you through look like cuddles and puppies. But she goes more for the psych-out than anything else, from what I can tell. He's still in one piece," she clarified, "but she's leaving bits and pieces of other people behind." Meg considered, adding, "He's fighting it. He must've wrestled back control at least once, because he's got half a devil's trap carved in his arm. But who knows. Maybe she let him take over for a minute just to watch him writhe like a worm on her hook. All I really know is that when I saw him he was good and impaled."

Sam held onto the chair-back in front of him. He felt like he might throw up. It was difficult to be certain whether it was the thought of what Abaddon was putting his brother through or just the general malaise he'd been suffering from lately, but it felt soul-deep. And just so _wearying_. "We don't have a lot of options, here," he said to the room. "We'll just have to make the trade."

After a beat Meg demanded, "…That's it? You've had this long to think things over, and that's the best you can come up with? Gee, Sam, you really are the brains of this operation, aren't ya."

"What choice do we have?" Sam snapped. "She'll be expecting a trap. Cas blasted away the angel in our corner—sorry, okay, I know you didn't have a choice there. But still."

"There might be another angel who could assist us," Castiel said, not looking at Sam. "But I cannot say how useful that would be. Purifying Abaddon would still undoubtedly kill Dean."

"All we'd need is a way to immobilize her long enough to exorcise her," Kevin said. "I'm guessing the bullet trick won't work."

Sam was indeed somewhat opposed to shooting his brother. "And she'll have scouted out any location we might name to make sure we don't lay down a devil's trap. If a big one would even work on her; she'd probably just crack the concrete or wood around it to destroy its integrity."

"I'm leaning towards stabbing her in the face to slow her down," Meg suggested.

Sam was getting desperate, giving the demon a sidelong glance. "If I had my psychic powers…"

"There are other ways, Sam," Castiel cut him off.

"Maybe there's a spell?" Kevin said. "You guys were telling me that one witch in Indiana immobilized a leviathan for a few days without much of a problem."

"I'm not familiar with such an incantation."

"Maybe not," Sam said, grimly. "But we might know someone who is. And you know, I think he might be feeling talkative when I explain the alternatives to him." They were all quiet, exchanging disgruntled looks. But they had to acknowledge that this was an option that should at least be explored.

Softly, Meg muttered, "Damn it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So maybe I'm playing a little bit with the canon by saying they're saving the demons' souls when they're smiting them; so sue me.
> 
> No please don't sue me. I'm broke. You won't get anything, I promise.
> 
> I also really wished I could've seen Meg and Abaddon interacting in the series; I think they would've had a great dynamic. I couldn't really show it here because I'm thoroughly convinced Dean's in a very bad situation right now, and describing that would've spoiled the fun of them meeting for me, just a little bit.
> 
> Also, tiny confession, but I absolutely adore Meg with Castiel. Even getting past the romantic connection, their friendship just seemed really sweet and unexpected. I liked that. I miss that.
> 
> Anyway, to everyone who's reviewed, thank you so much! I always appreciate the feedback.


	12. Quid Pro Quo, Clarice

Going to talk with the King of Hell is bound to make anyone a bit apprehensive. But it certainly helps when he's already chained up in your dungeon. To alter the dynamics of the bargaining power, if nothing else.

Crowley had been sitting in the dark for quite some time now, alone with his thoughts. He was used to torture methods. Of course he was. You don't become King of Hell just on your natural good looks and dress sense. And as torture went, this was actually fairly pathetic. Leaving people to their own devices only really worked when it was to let them psych themselves out, _imagining_ the pain that was to come, effectively doing half the work for you. Not a bad technique, but it needed follow-through. And really, it worked best when the person was given time to reflect on himself. Cut off all outside communication and interaction, watch them squirm into reflection and self-loathing. This wasn't exactly a problem for Crowley. He didn't go much in for introspection, and he thought very well of himself.

This is to say, this _normally_ wasn't a problem for Crowley.

He blamed it on the dungeon. All these symbols carved in stone and metal and will and blood; there must have been something in them making this creeping uneasiness inside. Making him think about himself. _Really_ think. About his words and deeds. About the very concept of evil and forgiveness. They must have done something, made this place project those feelings, because it certainly couldn't have been coming from him. Probably a special torture designed specifically for demons and other supernatural entities. That had to be a part of it.

He blamed the mostly-completed cleansing ritual. "Cure a demon." Sure. Cure him of his _balls_. Get inside his head with their chanting and their hallowed ground and bloody needles, trying to _Clockwork Orange_ him, were they? Well it wasn't going to work. Who the _hell_ did they think they were dealing with? This little chemical dependency they'd tried to create, with the purified blood, might make him a little antsy, might give him a little _craving_ , but it wasn't going to really change him.

But who Crowley really blamed? The ones at the source of all this? Those lumbering, gun-toting, Latin-spewing, mutton-headed, plaid-wrapped…

"Winchesters," Crowley said as the lights came on. He blinked against the glare, adjusting himself in the chair so that his chains rattled a bit. "Or, rather, Winches _ter_. Where's Squirrel, Moose?"

For his part, Sam did not look in a jesting mood. He'd come alone. Meg's resurrection seemed like an unnecessary complication to this conversation. Likewise, Crowley's old business-relations-turned-sour with Cas might make the demon obstinate. To say nothing of Kevin, who at once could still be easily goaded by the memory of his mother, and who was also already serving a useful function on the research front. Charlie, meanwhile, was making significant progress with the weird-ar. That just left Sam. Tired, worried out of his mind, just _done_ with this whole situation before he'd even stepped in the room.

He crossed immediately to the metal table Crowley was sitting at, putting his palms down flat on the surface and leaning over it. You forget, interacting with him, that he holds the potential for menace. Sam's personality and big cow eyes tended to win people over, make them forget that he was about six and a half feet of muscle and resolve, with the cunning to back it up. When and if Sam ever cared to, he could be intimidating with very little effort.

Not that Crowley could be intimidated.

"You have information."

"Getting right into the quick and dirty, is it? Not even gonna lube me up before you stick it in?"

"I need a spell, Crowley."

Crowley raised his eyebrows. "I missed the part where that's my problem."

"It's your problem, now. And you'd better hope you have a solution for this, because it's your ass on the line, now."

"Someone putting the heat on you?" He watched Sam's jaw clench. So that was a 'yes.' Crowley leaned to look around Sam, saying, "Where's your brother? Thought you two liked to double-team your interrogations."

"He's busy," Sam snapped. "I need a spell that can keep a powerful demon immobilized. I mean at least as powerful as a devil's trap, but without all the prep time."

Crowley leaned forward. "Screw yourself, Moose. What's in it for me?"

"How about your continued existence?"

"My, something's got your antlers in a bramble. A powerful demon? Let me guess: Abaddon found a new meatsuit after you roasted her last one. Well, she does keep you on your toes, doesn't she. Certainly likes to grab you by the short and curlies. Still don't see how that's something _I_ would care about. See, I know you're not going to kill me, so that threat's useless." He rattled his chains again. "Need to give a little to get a little. Quid pro quo, Clarice."

Sam straightened, slowly, and walked around the table so that he stood over Crowley. Nope. Definitely not intimidating. Not even with the unnerving silence, the heavy sound of his shoe, or the demon-knife he was pulling out. But there was something kind of… not right about all this. Since when had Sam become so cold? There was kind of an odd feeling about him in general. Some strange vibration on the air, a feeling of electricity, a taste in the back of the throat like burning ozone. It was subtle, barely perceptible, probably only a higher-level supernatural being like himself would even notice it. But it nagged at Crowley, reminding him of something he couldn't quite place. It only got stronger with proximity, damn near stinging with that giant Moose standing over him. Crowley refused to crane his neck up to look at him, instead purposefully keeping facing ahead.

Exactly what Sam would have done isn't clear, because right then his phone rang. Crowley would never admit to the little bit of relief he felt at that moment.

"You gonna answer that?"

Sam glared, muttering, "We're not through," as he walked back out of the dungeon to speak in private. He left the light on, at least, only pulling the door shut behind him.

He didn't recognize the number, but there weren't many people that had his cell, so it was probably important. This business with Crowley was pretty pressing, but he needed a minute to cool off, anyway—he was getting pretty unreasonably upset for some reason. His heart-rate was up; he was even sweating a little. Too little sleep, too much crap all at once, to deal with that smarmy little dick right now, maybe. So he answered his phone. "Hello…?"

"Hiya, Sammy!"

His brother's voice. Sam felt like he'd been kicked in the gut. It seemed to _burn_ right through him, radiating up into his head. "Abaddon," he snarled.

"Dean's here too, kiddo." A laugh. It felt like it was ripping through Sam's ear, severing all link to reason and leaving only _fury_. His chest clenched. He was surprised he hadn't broken the phone in his grip. " _Boy_ is he in here. We've been having a grand old time. You should see where we are right now, Sammy. It's freakin' beautiful. It's like Hell all over again."

"If you hurt him…"

"Aw, you gotta relax, man. I _like_ this meatsuit. Getting all comfy in it. Feeling out the corners, the dark little spaces, really getting in the _groove_ of wearing your brother around for the next few centuries. There's so much to play with in here. And oh, he is keeping something from _you_. I don't know what it is, yet, but it must be a doozy. He's got his little claws wrapped tight around it. But I've got all the time in the world to tease it out of him. That is… unless you feel like bargaining now?"

"You want Crowley," Sam stated, uneasily eyeing the dungeon door.

"You got it, buddy. I know where you are. I know where you're keeping him."

"Yeah, clearly. You know, your little assassination attempt didn't work either. Meg's dead." A blatant lie, but he figured he owed it to her to let her have to option to disappear quietly when all this was done. At least now Abaddon wouldn't be on her ass for backstabbing.

"Aw, that's a shame. I'm all broken up about it. Guess that just leaves you and me and the devil makes three. What do you say, Sammy? I'll name the place, you know the price. Hand him over and maybe I'll kill you both quick."

Well that was certainly a tempting offer. She wasn't much of one for negotiations, was she?

"I want to talk to my brother. I want to know you h-haven't been snapping _pieces_ off of him."

"If that's what it takes…" There was a pause. And when Dean's voice returned it was quieter, but rougher. Like he'd been screaming for days. It just about tore Sam's heart out to hear his brother's voice cracking over the words, "Hey, Sammy."

" _Dean._ How… how is it?"

"…Look, I don't have long. Just… don't do anything stupid. Don't make any deals with her. And… don't try to save me."

"Dean, come on—"

"I mean it, Sammy." There was no vehemence to his voice. No power. "You find a shot, you take it. Put her down. I'm… sorry it ended this way, man, but it's not exactly a shocker. We both knew it could come down to this, one of these days. It's the job."

"Stop it. I don't believe that. There's always a way."

"Not this time. Look… Sam, there's something I gotta tell you. And I'm… _so_ sorry. I th-think I screwed up. I didn't think it through. I shouldn't have… I shouldn't have done this to you. I'm not sure I really understood until now. And I guess this is my comeuppance, huh? Well, it's a real kick in the pants."

"What're you talking about?"

"Sammy, I'm sorry… Damn it _no_ ," he suddenly hissed, the first color of emotion coming back into his dead voice. "Sh-she's… Sam, she's in Lebanon! Do what you have to, nuke the place, just don't let her get away. I c-can't… _Sam!_ "

"Dean!" he yelled into the phone, pressing it tight enough to his ear to hurt, searching for the sound of his brother's voice. "Dean?"

"Well, that was lively. Now we all know where we stand, I guess." The tone turned hard. He could hear her walking around in his brother's body. It sounded like the crunch of broken glass. Where were they? In one of the diners in town? The grocery store where he'd taken Cas just the other day? Somebody's house? It made Sam sick that there was so much evil so nearby, all those people he _should_ have been protecting.

"I'm gonna give you an hour to think it over, Sam, and then I'll text you the coordinates. Just like Dad used to do."

It was faint, but Sam could hear the sound of a quiet whimper on the other side of the phone. Somebody was there with her.

"I'll be at those coordinates. If you don't show up in half an hour, I'm gonna take this sweet ride and just ease on down the road for a few months. You won't catch up again until I want you to. And all the while he'll be in here with me. You heard him. How much more of this you think he'll be able to take?"

Sam heard a sharp, pained gasp. A woman's voice whimpering. _No. Please. No more. Not again. Not again. Please._ A mantra against the monsters. And there, Dean's voice gently shushing her. More crunching glass. A low, quiet laugh.

"You'll be hearing from me, Sammy," Abaddon promised, the call cutting out just as the woman began to _scream_.

Sam was shaking. He wasn't sure if he wanted to put his fist or his head through the wall, but he needed to let this out _somehow_. He scrubbed at his eyes, trying to regain control. But there was nothing. He had nothing.

No. That wasn't quite true. Crowley. Crowley was going to play ball whether he liked it or not. The hour was ticking away. There was no _time_.

Crowley noticed the change the minute Sam walked in the room. There was a newfound sense of urgency about him, and his eyes were red. Maybe now wasn't the best time to goad him. "Important phone call?" the demon asked, lightly.

"Do you have a spell or not? Because if you don't, I'm just going to hand you over to Abaddon."

Well _that_ was startling news. She must _really_ be holding something over them. Crowley shifted uncomfortably, considering his options. There was only one thing that put the Winchesters' backs against the wall like this, and judging from the fact Dean-o was still MIA, it wasn't hard to figure out what the pressure point here was. It would be in Crowley's best interest _not_ to end up as Abaddon's chew-toy, if at all possible.

"I know a spell. Only works on demons. Won't immobilize 'em, but it should cut off their psychic juice for a little while. No more slinging you meatheads against the wall. Fairly simple spell, just takes a bit of wax, some salt, and the right incantation. But, here's the kicker: I also need blood. Specifically, their blood, or the blood of the poor sap they're wearing. Doesn't have to be fresh, just has to be theirs."

"That won't be a problem," Sam dismissed it. God knows there was enough of his brother's dried blood on clothes and weapons around here. "I'll get you what you need. How long will—"

Sam felt very dizzy, suddenly. Disoriented. The room seemed to move a little. His ears were ringing. Crowley was staring at him, looking almost… scared. Sam had a strange feeling he was missing something. Sleep. That was it. He was missing sleep. He cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes, not wanting to seem weak in front of Crowley as he finished speaking.

"How long will it take?"

"Ten minutes. Tops."

Sam nodded, glancing at his watch. More time had passed than he'd thought. They needed to get a move on. "Wait right here. I'll be right back."

"Take your time," Crowley murmured to his back, watching him, curiously. "I'm not going anywhere."


	13. The Little Engine That Couls

While Sam went downstairs to look in on the Crowley situation, Castiel had Meg sit with him at one of the tables to look at her wounds. There were implements from a medical kit spread out in front of them.

"Sorry," Castiel was saying around the last bite of a sandwich, pushing the plate out of the way, "I just haven't eaten in a while."

He gestured for her arm to unwrap the bandaging. Meg gave a sour smile but scooted her chair over. She tried not to flinch as he gently pushed the cuff of her jacket up and began to unwind the medical trappings. It hurt. More than she had expected it to. This meatsuit felt things a lot more than it really should have: The feeling of his competent fingers brushing against her skin, the pull of pain from the injury itself, this constant nagging burn from the other wound in her chest… Meg squirmed a little, trying to distract herself.

"So. Look at you, all human and vulnerable. Kinda reminds me of the good old days playing doctor. It almost makes me want to take advantage."

"You know you need to change your dressings, periodically. These bandages are filthy."

"How's that been?" she asked, ignoring him. "Being human?"

"It's an adjustment. But I'm managing," he said, tightly. "Having friends certainly helps." The bandaging came away with a pungent odor that made his nose wrinkle. "These have barely healed since I saw you."

"Guess being dead will do that to ya."

He had hold of her right arm, so she had to twist over herself to grab a bottle of liquor off the table. She thumbed the top off one-handed and drank from its mouth, watching him cleaning out the wound. His singleness of purpose was kind of fascinating to watch. But there was something different about him. It was more than just the change of wardrobe; there was a kind of softness about him, now, like the edges of a candle flame. Maybe it was just his ephemerality. Or maybe it was compensation; an inner grace to replace the one that had been stolen from him.

Meg grimaced as she tread dangerously close to poetry territory, taking another draw from the bottle. "So this human thing. Is it permanent?"

"I don't know," he sighed, a little exasperated with her twitching. He really didn't want to talk about this; he just wanted to fix her up and go fix Dean and maybe when all that was done they could all see about fixing Sam and then fixing the angels and Heaven, but right now he'd just like to put himself at the bottom of the list. "Can you move a little closer?"

"Oh?" He let out a grunt of surprise as she climbed onto him, straddling his leg. She dangled the liquor bottle over his right shoulder. He could smell the alcohol when she breathed against his neck, "Is this better, Clarence?"

"That's not really necessary…" he said, trying to keep his entire focus on her arm. It was difficult; he could feel Meg's chest moving with her breath, every clench of the muscles in her legs, the faint scent of the dye still in her hair mixing with her natural smells of smoke and dust and brimstone. He remembered running his hands through her hair when he'd kissed her in that corridor, the feeling of her reacting against him…

"I liked your old clothes."

"What?" he fumbled the new bandage.

"I miss the tie," she said, laying her head against his shoulder so she could watch his profile. "And the coat. There's something about a man in a suit."

"A suit is impractical for the way I live, now."

"Mm."

Meg straightened to take another drink. His eyes trailed to her lips against the bottle, the smooth working of her throat. The way her mouth curled into a lazy smile when she was done. She twisted around to set the bottle on the table again, using him as an anchor.

"You're breathing kind of fast, Clarence. Sure it shouldn't be me fixing _you_ up?" she asked, carding her fingers through his hair.

"Meg…"

She only stopped when she saw how he avoided eye contact with her, his body rigid, turned away. He'd allowed this invasion, had maybe even enjoyed it a little, but there was something not right. She pulled away slightly, asking, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. We're… in the middle of a crisis."

"We're always in the middle of a crisis. But since when are you Mr. Chaste-and-Pure?" She was getting a little annoyed, now, at the disengagement. The _dismissal_. She shifted, rolling her hips, to lean in and taunt, "What, is your little engine stalled?"

"There is nothing wrong with my engine," he said, firmly. He seemed to be choosing his words with care, letting his hands fall still. "I met a woman, not long ago. Her name was April."

It stung. She hadn't expected that. Was that jealousy? Or was it something more? Whatever it was, Meg wasn't ready to own up to it. So she scoffed, "And let me guess, it was true love? Some doe-eyed babe picks you up off the road, and suddenly you're Westley to her Buttercup? You know I seem to recall Emmanuel picked up a wife the exact same way. How'd _that_ work out for you?"

"April was possessed," he said, his voice breaking slightly. That stopped her short. She'd seen the little cloud-hopper angry, frustrated, frightened, sad, but even when he was cruising the Crazy Alps she couldn't remember him losing composure like this. This thing was eating at him, in some ways worse than his other mistakes had done. "It wasn't love," he went on after a moment. "I didn't expect that. Or ask for it. But at least I didn't think… April, the real April, was still in there somewhere. That thing was just wearing her skin."

He touched her wrist, gently. He didn't say it. He didn't need to. She knew what he was thinking. She was a thing wearing someone else's skin. It's what a demon was. That had always been understood. She just hadn't thought he'd care. Sure, angels needed consent for their vessels, blah-blah covenant, whatever. She didn't think that consideration expanded beyond their own little universe. Maybe it had taken this experience to remind him of all the victims when they all went around indiscriminately purifying the daylights out of the demons. Or maybe it was being human that had given him a greater appreciation for these pitiful little lives.

Seized by a sudden impulse, she freed her arm and pulled him into a hug. There was dirt on his collar. He smelled like he'd rolled around in a field. His scruff could use some managing. Still, underneath all that, there was an undeniable sense of some intangible purity. Meg squeezed her eyes shut, telling herself it was the dust on his clothes that made her eyes prickle. "You're a good man, Castiel," she said, her voice a little rough.

"That's… nice of you to say," he said as she let him go again. "However inaccurate."

There was something bubbling up inside of her. It wasn't quite lust, and it wasn't quite sadness. Yearning; maybe that was the word. Or gas, she decided harshly. Whatever it was, it prompted her to say, "It's just me in here, Clarence. When I got resurrected, the little actress from Cheboygan didn't come along for the ride. I know," she half-laughed when she felt his sidelong glance, trying to decide whether or not to believe her. "Pretty nifty, huh? Nobody else in the body, can't smoke out anymore—I'm turning into as bad a demon as you are an angel."

"And… how's that been?" he tried, delicately.

"So far? It kinda sucks. This body hurts all over. And I can't even get this hot guy I know to relieve the tension for me, work out all the kinks. _All_ the kinks," she emphasized.

He pretended not to hear that. "You're feeling more human."

"Well… yeah. I guess. I mean I can still toss you across the room, and the teleporting seemed up and running. I probably won't be drinking any salty margaritas anytime soon."

"You know there's a way to… cure demons. Using an altered exorcism rite. You could be purified. Become fully human."

"Purified?" Meg bared her teeth. It might have been a smile. He couldn't read her eyes when they were dark and distant like this. There had always been something of a feral look about her. Like she was a storm encased in skin and bone. Her teeth flashed lightning when she said, "I don't want to be saved."

What he heard was, "I don't deserve to be saved."

He might have argued with her, but it was then that he heard Sam returning. He rushed though the room and back, his arms piled with supplies. On the way through, Sam halted briefly at the sight of Meg still straddling Castiel's leg, saying, " _Priorities_ , guys. There's a time and a place for that! You can… canoodle later. Look, I got word from Abaddon; she's ready to make a trade. Meg, I need you downstairs, now."

"What for?" she asked, grumpy.

" _Now._ We don't have a whole lot of time, and I need to be sure Crowley's not screwing us over. Cas, get one of the cars from the garage loaded, we need to be ready to leave in…" he juggled his supplies to check his watch, "half an hour. Come on, let's go!" he said, hurrying away.

"Well, we'd better do what he says," Meg said wryly, getting up.

She'd started off after Sam when Cas called, "Meg! Just… be careful around Sam. He's not himself right now."

Meg's eyebrows rose, slightly. When he didn't elaborate, she dipped her head in acceptance. "Okay. Check. Beware of Moose crossing. I can handle that." Holding up her bandaged arm lazily, she followed Sam into the dungeon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some kind of heavy topics in this chapter, but I thought they should be addressed. I'm really not pleased with how they dealt with April. And I'm disappointed for that. When things started heating up between Sam and Ruby, they handled the consent issue by getting her a body with no occupant. Why they couldn't have had April get possessed the morning after-or at least have a little tact when talking about her later-I really don't know. This, to me, felt like something that would bother Cas. Angels possess people, but it's all about consent. It's a covenant. Using someone else's body without their permission is evil. The fact that April was possessed for the whole thing should have been a bigger issue and it should've been addressed. Now that I've done that, I don't think it'll really come up again. I just wanted it settled.
> 
> Oh, and it gave me an opportunity to let Meg mention that actress from Cheboygan's gone. I'm not sure how far down the road of redemption Meg's going to go, but that concerned me. I think she'll have to be dragged to salvation kicking and screaming, but we'll see if she'll get there. I really love her character and how she developed from her initial introduction. And I kind of love her vamping on Cas. Leave me alone they're cute.
> 
> As always, I appreciate feedback.


	14. It's a Maumet, You Muppet

In the grand scheme of things, Sam wasn't all that sure about this.

Crowley was bound, that much was certain. If he was going to escape, he'd had ample time to try, already. That didn't mean it wasn't kind of a dumb idea to give the guy the implements to a spell, with only Crowley's word on what it would actually do. Sam held it as a good sign that most of the ingredients were fairly low-grade stuff (no holy relics or special bones or anything), so it couldn't have been _all_ that powerful. All the same…

"If you try anything…" he warned.

"I know. You'll chop me up and feed me to the poor. Don't get your knickers in a twist," Crowley advised. He'd been rolling melted wax between his shackled hands for a few minutes, occasionally poking other ingredients inside. Sam had instructed that whatever preparations he was making, to double it. So by the time Meg entered, Crowley had rolled out two tiny wax figurines in the rough shape of humans. He'd been cutting into the second one's middle, to hollow out a space, when he noticed her. He paused in his work, briefly, before he asked, "Doesn't anyone stay dead around here, anymore?"

"Aw, I missed you too, cupcake," Meg purred, her eyes roaming over him gleefully. "Boy, they really weren't kidding about this being a dungeon."

"Sadly, not _your_ type of dungeon, whore. They chain you up in here, but they leave all the kinky bits to the imagination."

"So wasteful. And here you are all trussed up like a turkey. I can't decide whether to start in on the light or the dark meat first."

"You couldn't afford either."

"Okay, guys!" Sam interrupted. "Are you done, Crowley?"

Crowley slid the wax figures over. "Nearly. The blood goes in here. Seal it up, and say the mumbo-jumbo while you wrap another bloody bit of fabric round."

Sam picked one of the figures up, his brow briefly furrowing as he held it delicately aloft _._ It looked especially small and ridiculous in his giant hands."…Is this a doll?"

Crowley's condescending smile looked a bit strained. "It's a maumet, you muppet."

"…It looks like a doll."

"Fascinating as all this is," Meg interjected, "why am I here? We gonna play house? Cuz it looks like you and Mrs. Nesbitt over here have it handled."

"I need your blood," Sam said.

Meg gave a hard laugh. "How about no."

"Come on, it's for the d— _maumet_. I need to know this will work, and you're the only demon on hand to test it on."

"What about him?" she jerked her thumb at Crowley.

"I can't trust him. Come on, Meg. We don't have much time."

Sam was asking, now, looking all sweet and innocent with his dewy eyes. But Meg had the feeling that he would go straight from asking to taking if he had to. This wasn't really a choice. "All right," she allowed, holding out her arm to him.

When he took out his knife, she briefly thought of what the little ex-angel had said. Look out for Sam. Just what was she supposed to be looking out for? Meg had walked around in his skin for long enough to get a feel for him. It was a strong meatsuit; it had to be, to eventually house Lucifer. And it had felt good, having that buffer of demon blood in him to ease the process. Kind of like coming home. Here, though, when Sam laid his fingers lightly on her wrist to steady the knife against the ball of her thumb, there was something different. The touch only lasted a moment, but something about it disquieted her. There was a sound that was not quite a sound. Almost like trying to listen for a dog whistle. He made a clinical incision on her thumb to get a little stream of her blood, and as she reclaimed her hand she thought she must have been imagining it.

Sam had her tear off a strip of fabric from the bottom of her shirt and press it to her thumb while he sealed up the chest cavity on the little wax figure. "Now what?" she asked, giving him the bloody strip of cloth.

"I need to make sure it works. Try doing something, I don't know, demonic."

Crowley had been making himself _very_ quiet during all of this, but he knew what Meg's little smile meant as she held up her hand, murmuring, "With pleasure," and gave her wrist a _turn_. Crowley choked, feeling his insides burning and morphing and _twisting_ , like her damned hand was actually inside of him, turning his guts to mush.

Meg was having a ball with this. It hadn't really taken much input on her part _and_ she got to torture Crowley? He was only the last in a very long line of bastards she'd had to deal with, but oh, how she'd wanted to do this for _years_. All of it was almost worth it to see him choking up frothing black blood, his eyes turning demon-red from the strain, as he writhed in his chains. The power over him was _intoxicating_.

And then it was gone. Meg felt like she'd been shoved in a soundproof container in the shape of her meatsuit. Everything was suddenly… muffled. Like the meatsuit didn't quite fit on her anymore, like she was going to get lost in the flesh. She struggled, gasping when another flare of pain came from that damned angel-blade mark.

"It worked," Sam said in some wonder, staring at her.

"Yeah. It's peachy," she groaned, trying not to double-over.

Oh but this body _hurt_. Worse than before. Worse than the little stabs of feeling when Castiel was touching her festering wounds. Worse than the fire under her skin where the angel blade had dug in. Worse than the pang that went through her when she'd let herself be close to someone for a minute. It was like being human again. Back to being poor and angry and scrapping and scraping for every inch, through broken bone and teeth and jaw and eye, giving skin and tearing skin and life and pride and hope. It was a barefoot girl on a dry, dusty road, chewing the ends of her filthy hair to stave off hunger pains. It was rough hands and voices and tempers and faces pinched and mean and always _wanting_ and _taking_ , their dirty fingers pawing over her, leaving smudges on her dim little soul.

"Ooh, hello. That hit you _hard_ , didn't it?" Crowley grinned around a mouthful of blood, wiping at his chin. "You must be losing your touch, darling, if _that_ little spell is making you go all weak in the knees."

"Take it off. Undo it," she snapped at Sam.

He was muttering the spell to release it, quickly unwinding the cloth, and in a moment she felt she could breathe again. Well that was all very unpleasant. She made a promise to herself _never_ to repeat that experience, given the choice.

She pointed at the little figurine still in his hand, uneasy. "What about that? It's still got my blood in it, right?"

"Um. Yeah," Sam said, at a bit of a loss. "I'm not really sure how to undo that part…"

"Allow me," Crowley said, leaning over to snatch it from his hands. Before either of them could stop him, Crowley had _smashed_ the maumet onto the table, grinding it in until it lost all human form.

Meg had flinched at the action, cringing at the expectation of pain. But it never came. There was just Crowley, with his shit-eating grin and smeared wax all over his hands. "Just breaking the link," he said, as if he were just being helpful all along.

Sam had already stopped paying attention to them, too busy preparing the second maumet with a vial of blood he'd had in his pocket. He dripped most of it in, and then only dabbed a bit on a scrap of plaid he had on-hand. He didn't complete the ritual, though, instead opening the little paper-lined box he'd brought him along with the rest of the supplies, carefully laying them inside. "How long you think that'll hold against Abaddon?" he asked.

"Seconds," Crowley said, brutally.

"Guess we'd better make 'em count."

It took a little while to undo the devil's traps to let Crowley out of the dungeon. He was still technically bound with the sigil-marked handcuffs he'd been wearing since Dean had slapped them on him. It would have to do.

Meg wasn't pleased. To be fair, Sam wasn't exactly a happy camper, either. But ultimately he figured he couldn't risk it; if they didn't even have him with them, Abaddon might take one look and then take off for God knows how long. And now it was getting dangerously near the time Abaddon was supposed to text back with the coordinates.

When they got back upstairs, Sam found the others all gathered around the dining table. Cas had changed into some cleaner clothes. Actually, with the white button-down and the black slacks, he almost looked his old self. Sam wished he'd been able to find the time to change out of his own road-worn clothing, but it was too late at this point. Anyway, what had really snagged his attention was the fact that Cas almost looked like he was… _bullying_ Kevin. They were standing almost toe-to-toe, and it looked like they'd been arguing. That was surprising. And a little disheartening. Sam had thought they were getting along better, lately. But here, Cas was saying something quietly to him, his posture a little imposing. Charlie stood behind them, looking honestly spooked, so whatever was being said, it had them all on edge.

They fell silent as Meg, Sam, and Crowley approached from the other side of the table, and Cas took a step away from the more intimidating pose he'd held over Kevin. "What's going on?" Sam asked, frowning at this.

Cas sent a _look_ at Kevin, who seemed to be avoiding Sam's gaze. "It's nothing," the prophet said, his shoulders hunched. Charlie made a little noise that might have been concurrence, but mostly sounded like a squeak.

Sam decided this wasn't something they had time to deal with, right now, so he was going to take that at face value. "All right, well we've got something that should slow her down. It's still going to be a long-shot. We'll need everybody ready for this."

"If you took the jangles off I could take the bitch," Crowley inserted, lifting his chained hands.

"I wonder at the wisdom of even bringing him," Castiel said, glaring at the King of Hell. "Our chance of success in this is extremely low."

"Well. Don't sugar-coat it," Sam muttered. "Anyway, we've gotten out of worse. And look at the crew we've got. There's five of us against one of her."

"Actually," Charlie said, looking a little nervous. "I think I should stick with the weird-ar on this one. I've almost got a mobile function worked out and this fight is… kind of above my pay-grade."

"…Right. Yeah, no, you're right. Of course. So there'll be four of us. No. Sorry, I meant three. What was I…? Kevin's not coming. Of course he isn't. We're going directly into danger. Why was I thinking we'd bring him?"

"Uh, Sam?"

They were all staring at him. There was something not right here. He'd misread the situation. He'd thought Cas had been bullying Kevin, but look at how they were standing. They were all on the other side of the table, Kevin and Charlie almost _hiding_ behind Castiel. And why were they all looking at him like that? Nervous, almost pitying?

Cas moved then, picking something off the table. Sam didn't see what it was until he'd shoved it into his hands: a sandwich wrapped up in plastic wrap. Sam started to give a weak protest, but Cas was giving him kind of an intense look, and he gripped Sam's shoulder. "You need to keep your strength up. We're only stewards of these bodies, brother."

"I… all right, I guess…"

"Well I'm feeling a bit peckish, too, if you're playing mother," Crowley spoke into the kind of awkward silence. "Where's my after-school snack?"

Castiel's eyes narrowed on him before briefly flickering over to Meg. "I don't think she should come with us, either."

"Well we're kind of running out of people," Sam said around the sandwich.

"Aw, what's wrong, Clarence, not enough room in the car for me? That's all right, I don't mind sharing a seat. I could always sit on your lap."

"If we die, which is altogether possible, we need someone strong enough to keep Kevin safe while he continues his research. Kevin's the only one here who can possibly fix this mess and get the angels back into Heaven. There's nothing more important. This is a defensible location, but Abaddon would likely pour her resources into starving them out. Worst case scenario, we need Meg to be able to pick up the pieces."

Sam could laugh at the absurdity of it if all. "You… want to leave a demon to babysit a prophet until he can fix Heaven?" Sam knew Cas had a soft spot for her, but, "I'm not so sure about trusting her with that. I mean it's one thing having her _here,_ but just leaving Kevin with her—"

"You left _me_ with her," Castiel snapped, and Sam flinched at the memory. That… had not been their finest hour. And looking back on it, Cas had a point. They'd trusted her with a lot. With looking after Cas when he'd cracked, with some of their bolt-holes; hell, Dean had even let her drive his car into the leviathans' headquarters.

"You know we're standing _right_ here," Meg put in.

"It'll be fine," Kevin assured Sam. "Just… don't die and it won't even have to come to that."

Sam's phone buzzed in his pocket. "That's Abaddon," he said, scrambling it out. "We've got the coordinates, let's move. All right I guess we'll… see you three when we get back. With Dean."

Sam had hold of Crowley's shoulder and was steering him towards the garage. Cas paused, glancing at the others. Kevin and Charlie looked particularly grim. "If I don't come back, and Sam does, alone…" he began.

"We know," Charlie said. "We'll basilisk fang this bitch's diary until Tom Riddle pops out."

Castiel wasn't sure what she'd meant by that, but he assumed she meant they'd do something to address Sam's issue. Meg seemed almost as lost, so he assured her, "They'll explain. I have to go. When… If I get back, we can—"

"Don't make any promises," she cut him off, her smile a little bitter. "Or plans. Those never seem to work too well with us."

He paused, as if he would say more. But in the end he gave a curt nod to them all and hurried after Sam and Crowley.

The champagne-colored Lincoln Continental Castiel had picked out was all ready for them to go, loaded up and moved into the middle of the garage. Crowley snorted when he saw it, giving a Cas a disbelieving look. "Really? What are you, a pimp?"

"I like it," Cas growled.

Sam had been multi-tasking on his phone and muttered a quiet curse at the screen. "The location she gave: I think it's the barn where we stashed the Impala. All right, hop in. Ah-ah! Crowley, get in the back. You too, Cas, I need you to keep an eye on him."

Castiel was opening the trunk, revealing a fairly full arsenal and a devil's trap hastily scrawled on the interior roof. "I have a better idea."

He gave Crowley a hard shove into the trunk, taking him by surprise. Crowley barely had time to utter an oath before Cas shut the lid on him. Sam could still hear his indignant squawks, punctuated by the sounds of his fists banging on the closed lid.

Castiel snatched the car keys out of Sam's hands as he stood there, stunned, saying only, "I'm driving."


	15. No, Mr. Bond, I Expect You To Die

"So. What's the plan?"

Sam had his phone out, the box containing the maumet tightly held under one of his arms. He'd already checked his weapons a few times over. It was a very short drive to their destination, and he knew he shouldn't be concerned about missing the thirty minute window Abaddon had set, but he wished Cas would drive faster.

"Get as close as we can. Knock out her psychic mojo, and force her out."

Sam went into a little more detail, outlining the tools, the means, the alternatives. It all basically came down to a crucial final set-up. It still sounded like a fairly nebulous plan, but it allowed for improvement, at least.

It was a hard question, but it needed to be addressed. "And if we can't force her out?"

Sam's breath came out in a huff as he shook his head. He muttered, "I don't know, man."

"Yes, you do."

"It won't come to that."

"It has come to that," Castiel said, gravely. "You need to face the possibility that the only way to save Dean may be to let him go. He wouldn't want to live like this."

Sam knew. Dean had _told_ him as much. That didn't make this any easier. "Even if that were the case, I don't know how we could kill her. None of our weapons will work. Even the holy fire won't keep her down forever if another of her minions resurrects her. Last time our best solution was to chop her into pieces, and even then she wasn't really dead. So if it's between leaving Dean encased in cement in a dismembered corpse with that hell-bitch and just letting her go, I don't really see how that's any option at all."

"An angel," Castiel said quietly, "might be able to give your brother relief. Even Knights of Hell fear the wrath of Heaven."

"Well, that's great, Cas," Sam said, a little exasperated. "What, you got another angel in your back-pocket or something? Newsflash: They're all earth-bound and pissed. The one angel we've found so far who might have had our backs has been blasted to parts unknown. Well, maybe two angels, if you count that crazy one we ran into. And you know, that's another thing. Why'd he act like he knew me?"

Castiel tried very hard to keep his eyes focused only on the road. "He was… confused. You know that. He… probably recognized you as Lucifer's vessel. And saw your damage from the trials."

"He called me 'brother,'" Sam went on, his teeth sunk into this now. "And come to think of it, so did you. I thought that's only something you called one another."

Now was _not_ the time to deal with this. Castiel regretted bringing it up at all. So he said, "You are a brother to me, Sam. You and Dean are… both very dear to me. And I know we've had our ups and downs. Mostly downs, if we're being honest. With you, especially, our friendship has had to overcome certain obstacles. But I'd like to think that, through it all, we've developed a certain sense of… kinship. If the term makes you uncomfortable, of course…"

"No!" Sam immediately backpedaled, clearing his throat. Cas glanced at him and felt horribly manipulative when he saw how touched Sam actually was. It only made this secret he was carrying all the heavier. "No, it's fine, Cas. I didn't mean… I mean, yeah, you're, um… You're family, as far as I'm concerned. I didn't… Forget it, it's not important. I don't even know what I was trying to say. It's just been… a _weird_ couple of days. And this thing with Dean has got me all strung out. I'm fine," he added, quickly.

Castiel looked at him, sidelong. "Are you sure?"

When the change came, it was immediate. Sam had been slouching, a weary and anxious puddle in the passenger seat. When the _other one_ took over, he sat up straight, his fidgeting hands at a rest. His face smoothed out, nearly expressionless, as he turned slightly in his seat to stare at Cas.

"How long have you known?" the angel asked.

"Ever since you brought me back from the dead." Castiel touched his neck, trying not to grimace at the memory. "Again. This wasn't the first time, was it?"

"No."

"And Sam knows… _nothing_."

The angel finally stopped staring, shifting slightly in discomfort. He could clearly hear the accusation in Castiel's voice. This vessel he had taken, this soul he had been entrusted with, had _not actually consented to this_. This sacred covenant was stained. It was completely beyond the pale.

"That is how his brother wanted it."

Cas tried to ignore how that barb of betrayal _stung_. He'd hoped, so much it embarrassed him now, that Dean was somehow ignorant of all this. But the fact that he could go through with this, that he could actually do this to Sam, just made his heart ache. And at the same time, it frustrated him, because shouldn't they be past this by now? All of this: making deals, going behind one another's backs, taking these morally-questionable risks, when was it going to _stop?_

And then there was the fact that Dean had said he'd worked something out with Ezekiel. Castiel knew Ezekiel; maybe not well, but this clearly wasn't him. Moreover, Ezekiel would never consent to do something like this. He was honorable, and direct. And from what Muriel had said, this one was much older than Ezekiel. It scared Cas a little that one so old had lied and manipulated his way into Lucifer's true vessel like this.

"Why?" Cas asked, quietly.

"That is something you will have to ask Dean."

"No, why are you here? Why would you save Sam's life?"

The angel paused before answering. "We are… guardians of our father's kingdom, are we not? I answered a prayer for relief. The situation was desperate."

"And why do you keep bringing me back? We both know where humans go when they die. There's no mystery, or fear. I feel the drive to live because it's inherent to this plane of being. I'd prefer if I didn't die. But I don't see why _you_ would go out of your way to bring me back. Why it would bother you at all."

Again, that small pause before he spoke. "Even knowing that they would only go to Heaven and eternal rest, does it not still bother you, Castiel, the thought of Sam or Dean dying?"

The human body has so many strange mechanisms. So many little pains and pleasures mixing together into an exhausting collection of reactions. Castiel felt his gut clench as the thought of losing them, his palms turning slick against the steering wheel so that he tightened his grip and gritted his teeth. Did it bother him? Of _course_ it did. But it was different with them. They still had so many ways to grow and learn and _become_. In Heaven they would have rest, but they would also just… stop. Whatever they were, whatever infinite potential they carried, it ended there. Only in life was there change.

The angel, watching him, nodded at his reaction. "So, too, it would… pain me to see your journey ended so soon."

There just wasn't time for this. There wasn't time for _anything_. He needed Sam here, and as much as he _hated_ leaving this for even another minute, this would all just have to wait. Castiel was still deeply suspicious. And he was absolutely _furious_ about this entire situation. But he'd have to deal it. At least until he could get his hands on Dean and shake some damned sense into him.

"We're not done talking, you and I," he warned. "But I need Sam back here, now." He didn't want to ask. He didn't want to need anything from this dishonorable, sneaky… whoever the hell this was, but Cas had to say, "And… about Dean…"

"I am only here to help, Castiel," the angel said, rearranging Sam's face into an expression of bland sincerity.

"Good," Castiel growled, glaring at the road. "Because if you betray us, I'll make you regret it. Of that you can be sure."

"Yeah, I'm sure," Sam said, answering a question that had been asked minutes ago. It was just Sam again. Castiel hadn't seen the switch this time, it had been so seamless. Sam looked just a little disoriented, frowning as he looked around them. He checked his watch, and then squinted ahead. "There it is. She's got the barn doors open. And… oh _hell_ ," he groaned.

The barn doors were indeed wide open. They'd have to be, to fit the car back through them. Abaddon had moved the Impala from the barn out onto the grass, and seemed to be content waiting there, leaning back against the hood of the car. She twirled the keys around a finger as Cas backed their own vehicle up to the meeting spot, leaving a wide space between them. Sam was out of the car immediately, moving around to the trunk to smudge the devil's trap and haul the King of Hell out, protesting. He stood there, one hand behind his back clutching the maumet, the other holding the scruff of Crowley's jacket, and tried to see his brother in Abaddon's face.

"Knew you'd come through for me, Sammy-boy," Abaddon approved, straightening from her slouch and giving a smug smile. "Hello, Crowley."

She looked awful in her stolen skin. There were bruises all along the side of her face, like she'd walked into a few dozen doors. There was a cut above her left eye that had clearly bled profusely. There were also marks all over her arms, scratches and slices in crisscrossing patterns. Two of her fingers on her left hand were discolored, bent at odd angles. Her clothes were rumpled and dirty, and even from where he was standing, Sam could smell that she reeked of blood and sulfur.

"Abaddon," Crowley was saying, giving a cordial nod, as though they'd all met for social drinks. "You're looking a little more ragged and plaid from the last time I saw you. Just between us girls, I don't think hunters match your complexion."

"What'd you do?" Sam growled.

Her lip twitched before she could control it. She covered her irritation with a laugh. "Me? Not a thing. Dean on the other hand… Ooh, he's a pistol, ain't he? Like these little chicken scratches are going to drive me out."

So he had been fighting back. From the look of it, Dean had taken to guerrilla tactics with the bitch. Inconveniencing the flesh in a thousand little ways, trying to gain a minute to put the devil's trap back on his skin. And, yes, now Sam could see them: the attempted sigils half-completed before being slashed apart again.

Crowley grinned. "Is that why you're travelling around without an entourage? Can't say I'm surprised. How're _you_ supposed to control Hell, when you can't even control your meatsuit?"

There wasn't anything like a smile on her face anymore. "Just keep talking, Crowley. When I'm done killing off the boy-wonder, here, I think I'm going to make an example of you to my court." She flicked out her hand, clearly meaning to toss Sam across the yard. When it didn't actually do anything, she blinked in surprise a few times, searching internally for the problem. She'd been cutting off most of her actual sense of the body. To be honest, it was an uncomfortable meatsuit: Too organic, inordinately _righteous_ ,still, right down to his soul, and now covered in annoying aches and pains. So she hadn't noticed how the sensations had been feeling muffled ever since the car had appeared at the end of the drive. She'd assumed it was just Dean stirring around in there, trying to wrestle back control again, but now she understood. "What did you _do_?" she hissed.

"Feeling a little limp, there, sparky?" Crowley asked, giving her meatsuit a once-over.

Abaddon struggled to overcome the binding for a second. It was fairly minor, after all. This should have been _nothing_ to her. But she hadn't been taking into account the sheer stubbornness of this flesh. Dean had been snarling like a wild animal from the minute his dear little brother had appeared. Even now she could feel her muscles twitching, no matter how hard she bore down on him. The fight was… surprising. He'd been a pain in her ass since she'd slipped into him, but even when she'd set him back to slicing and carving the innocent, he hadn't fought like _this_ before.

"Guess I'll have to do this the old-fashioned way," she snarled, advancing on them. "After all, dead is—"

" _Dean._ "

Abaddon felt her body shiver all over, a deep wrenching in her chest. She'd been preoccupied with Sam and Crowley as it was, barely even paying attention to who would've been driving the car. It was with mild surprise that she noted the person getting out of the driver's seat was the same one she'd killed just the other day. This was a curious turn of events, to be sure, but that didn't account for the feeling that jolted through her. She felt shock like a gunshot running right through her nerves, a clench in her heart. There were memories flooding through her, too quick to process, suffused with a sickeningly _clean_ feeling. Relief. Redemption. Salvation. And suddenly her stolen mouth was moving without her permission, its rightful owner gaining this one concession.

"Cas, you're alive," Dean choked. Abaddon tried to snap her teeth shut over the words. This damned feeling of _hope_ and awe loosening her grip over him. "I thought—" He shook his head, weakly.

"Dean? Look, man, you've got to cast her out," Sam implored.

Tears were leaking from Dean's eyes. His breath hitched as he whispered, "I can't. I can't even move. It's taking everything just to have this much. I'm… I'm so glad I got to see you guys one last time."

"How long can you hold her for?" Sam asked.

"I don't know. Not long. Tell me you've got a way to end this. Carve me up if you gotta. Just d—"

His mouth suddenly snapped shut. They could see by the look of sick terror in his eyes that Abaddon hadn't yet taken control again, but it was coming.

"Release me," Crowley said, suddenly.

"What're you, nuts?" Sam scoffed. "You're going back in the trunk—"

"If I can get in there, there's a chance that between the two of us, we can cast the bitch out."

"The _last_ thing we need right now is another possession," Castiel frowned.

"Yeah, and that's even pretending we'd trust you to let him go afterward."

"Oh please," Crowley said, looking insulted. "Like I'd want her sloppy seconds. Besides, I _keep_ to my bargains."

"The answer's still no," Sam snapped. "I'm not going to let you possess my brother. I wouldn't do that to him. Besides, he—" The maumet in Sam's hand was suddenly _very_ hot, the wax running in painful rivulets through his fingers. He hissed in pain, dropping it just as it burst into flames.

"Aw. Well ain't you a _peach_ ," Abaddon drawled. She gave a stretch, cracking her neck, while they stared at her in horror. She gave a little flick of her hand, a negligent gesture, and Sam and Crowley flew backwards, hitting the car heavily. "Should've taken me out while you had the chance, kiddo," she laughed, stepping forward to finish the job.

A band of pink passed over her eyes. And there was someone invading her personal space. It was that other one again. The little thorn in her side. Why did he make her so _angry_. Just seeing the grim set to her lips, the obstinate faith in his bright blue eyes, just put her _right_ on edge. Maybe it was this sense-memory she was getting from the flesh: the feeling of light overcoming darkness; of undeserved forgiveness burning through like warmth into cold veins; of freedom from torment and death.

" _You_ ," she hissed, looking down on him. What in Lucifer's name was he even doing? He had snuck up on her, holding some sort of ridiculous… oversized circle, which he'd passed over their heads. She wasn't sure what it was, but she felt its true purpose: a barrier. "What is this, a joke?" she laughed.

"No. It's a hula hoop," Castiel said, seriously.

It had been bad enough when Charlie had demonstrated it, but two grown men standing inside of a pink plastic hula hoop was just ridiculous. It certainly wasn't meant to be used in this way, which helped explain why they were standing so close. Even Abaddon felt uncomfortable. Hadn't this guy heard of personal space?

"You think this _toy_ is going to contain me?" She grabbed Cas's shirt front, shaking him so he lost his grip on the hoop and it clattered to the ground around them. There was a deep rumbling in the earth, and a crackling sound as the plastic strained and bent, gaining fractures that started to leak salt away.

"Dean, I know you can hear me. Stop h—"

Abaddon's fist connected solidly with his face. And again. And again. The next thing Cas knew, he was looking up from his knees, his face throbbing with his pounding heart, as Abaddon bent over him, grinning with Dean's mouth.

"I think I killed you too quickly last time, _Cas_ ," she cooed. Castiel tried to shove her away, only to have his head wrenched to the side, her fingers clenching in around his eye.

"Dean, _please_." And where was Sam? Surely she hadn't hit him _that_ hard. What was he _doing_ while Cas was over here buying him time?

"I think I like your eyes even more than Dean-o, here. Maybe I'll take them with me."

Rough fingers digging into skin, making little furrows filled immediately with blood. Head wounds always bleed so easily, don't they? The hula hoop was little more than a splintered, pink wreck at the point, the salt still pouring out. Cas squeezed his eyes shut in a vain attempt to protect them. He could feel Abaddon's hot breath on him, reeking of sin and sulfur, bringing back memories of the pit. Of fighting through darkness and smoke and rot, dragged down by the heavy weight of eternal death and despair.

"Or maybe I'll take _you_ with me," he heard Abaddon whisper, and he couldn't help the involuntary shudder he gave. "Sad little angel. How's humanity been treating you? Oh it's a _bitch_ ,isn't it. But hey, at least you get the human afterlife, now. In fact, you could have a little reunion with Dean, down in Hell. It'll be like old times. Only now, it'll be _you_ on the rack. Be almost poetic, wouldn't it? Well, Dean's still got the skillset for it. How many years do you think it'll take before he starts to _enjoy_ it again?"

"Dean," Cas tried again. A prayer. He forced his eyes open, trying to find some remnant of his friend in her. One of his eyes was harder to open than the other. He could taste blood from where his cheek had dug into his teeth. "Dean, don't let her win. I believe in you."

She hit him again, making his head snap back on his neck before she hauled him in close again. "You're pathetic," she sneered. "This is the best Heaven had to offer? You're all so _weak_."

Sam really wasn't coming. It struck Castiel that he was going to die. Again. On his knees. In this stupid field, with his face throbbing because he was too busy trying to show his faith to just take this bitch down. She'd said that she didn't want to kill him yet, but he could tell she was impatient for it. Perhaps he should be flattered. Demons tended to twist those most familiar bonds, perverting them into acts of brutality. It probably pained them at a basic level, he reflected blurrily, feeling the vessel's love for his family and friends. Well, that didn't do much to help him. He was going to be just as dead, whether she killed him quick or dragged it out. He wondered if it was an idle threat she'd given, or whether she could really pull him down into the pit. He knew he was supposed to be Heaven-bound, at least according to Metatron. But hadn't Muriel said there were rumors of souls going astray? And wouldn't that just beat all: Fallen Castiel, spending eternity in torment as a little human soul, trapped in the pit with a monster wearing his best friend's face. He couldn't honestly say that he didn't deserve it.

But that didn't mean he wasn't going down without a fight. He had to believe there was a way out of this. He had to trust that Sam would follow-through. It was a struggle to uncurl his fingers from around Dean's wrist, where they'd locked in an instinctual bid for surcease from pain. There was blood clogging up his nose, leaking down the back of his throat, making it hard to breathe. Everything seemed to have a sharp edge around it, like the universe had been cut and remade into stained glass tableaux. His fingers were almost numb; clumsy, useless things. They moved like drunken spiders, fumbling for purchase until they found his pocket. It was almost pathetic, how proud of himself he felt when he managed to bring out the lighter, flicking it to life.

Abaddon looked amused. "What, is that supposed to scare me?"

"It should," Sam said from behind her. He looked a little shaky on his feet, but the resolve in his eyes was steady as he poured the contents of a clay jug over her. It splashed, dripping over Castiel, just barely missing the open flame in his hand.

Abaddon went very still, breathing in the familiar, sickening smell of incense. "Holy oil," she muttered. Then: "You wouldn't. It's still Dean in here. Try it and I'll just ditch his meatsuit for another one."

"You won't," Cas said, solidly. "The salt line will hold long enough to burn everything inside."

"Then you'll burn with me," Abaddon snapped.

The look on Castiel's face was ugly. Almost feral. For the first time, Abaddon thought she could almost see a shadow of the powerful creature that had been trapped in this blue-eyed little shell, and it was a being of fire and wrath. "Do you doubt my resolve, demon?"

"Last chance," Sam warned.

Abaddon's eyes darted around, but they were right: There was no escape. The toy was broken and the salt leaking out would soon be blown away, but not nearly quickly enough to save her. She was soaked in the holy oil, no chance that it wouldn't at least harm her. And she _really_ didn't trust the look in the ex-angel's eyes.

"Do it, Cas," Dean pleaded. She'd been too distracted to feel his sudden surge of awareness. Her hands were releasing Castiel without her permission, giving him the opportunity to get away, leave her all alone in this ring of death. She fought, trying to press him back down, but he only laughed. This impossible man. Even after everything, even drowning in sour whiskey and self-hatred, even after breaking him and remaking him, using him, abusing him, how was he still so _strong_ , so _defiant_ , that he felt her efforts and only _laughed_ at her? "Go on," he shouted, "light it up!"

She saw his hand moving, preparing to throw the lighter, and that was finally enough. She reared back her head, mouth opening wide as black smoke poured out, becoming a swirling vortex still trapped inside of cheap plastic and salt. There was an almighty howling, like disembodied rage given the voice of a hurricane, and then the last of the barrier was breaking and Abaddon fled, streaking away across a clear blue sky.

"Dean!" Sam choked, leaping forward to catch his brother as Dean swayed on his feet.

"Ugh," Dean groaned, making a sour face. "Shit, she tasted horrible. I'm gonna need, like, ten packs of gum."

Sam laughed, mostly out of relief. He was glad Dean was at least able to joke about this, but he could tell there was a bigger issue. "Are you hurt?"

Dean waved the question away, picking at his shirt where he clung to him from the tacky holy oil. "Couple bruised ribs. Fingers need to be set. My pride's a little wounded. Look at this shit; I look like I just got off a porn set."

"We'll fix you up back at the bunker."

Dean nodded, giving a tired smile. He almost looked normal. Maybe a little ragged around the edges, like after a hard hunt, but mostly all right.

He only made it a few steps before he suddenly shoved Sam away, stumbling to his knees and began throwing up. His vomit was dark red, congealed, and the stench of it was all hot blood mixing with stomach acid and shame.

" _Jesus!_ " Sam caught his shoulders, trying to hold him steady as his body convulsed. Sam's hand made useless little circles on his brother's back, a half-remembered gesture of comfort from a childhood of bad stomach bugs from gas station food. "We've got to get you to a hospital."

Dean wiped away a string of spit from his mouth, his voice sounding low and bruised. "No, it's all right. It's not my blood." He could feel how Sam startled at that, so he forced his mouth into a careless smile. "She was draining demons. Trying to keep me down. Oh, get off me," he grunted, unable to stand the look of sad understanding in Sam's eyes. He glanced around for something to get off the topic, finally wondering, "Cas? Where's…?"

"I'm here," Castiel said, sounding subdued. He was over by the trunk of the Lincoln, kneeling by the wheel. In his hands were the handcuffs that had been binding Crowley.

"Oh… _shit_ ," Dean muttered. "You're saying Crowley's in the wind now, too?"

"It would appear that way," Castiel confirmed, gravely. He came over, offering a hand to help Dean up, and then giving the handcuffs to him. "They were not broken, but unlocked. It is good to see you, by the way."

Sam was frantically patting at his pockets. "Damn it, the key's missing. He must've pickpocketed me."

"Sloppy, Sam," Dean chided, but without much feeling. He just couldn't muster it. He ran a hand over his face, feeling grit where dust had stuck to the oil on his body. After brushing his teeth and gargling some bleach, he was going to have to take about a thousand showers just to feel normal again. "Let's just get the hell out here."

In his car, sitting in the passenger seat while his brother drove, Dean slumped against the door, breathing in the comforting scent of leather and gun powder. Home. It was good to be home. Dean let out a small laugh. "Guess we're even now, Sammy: now we've both had a girl inside of us."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last line is of course a reference to what Dean said after Sam was possessed by Meg way, way back in Winchester history.
> 
> This one took a little while, and it's a bit long. Confrontation scenes are hard, okay? I also think Abaddon's a pretty tough bitch, so I wanted to make her at least put up a fight.
> 
> I've got more ideas for where this will go. There's a lot left unresolved. But there's going to be a bit of a "recovery" period coming up as everyone winds down a bit. Whether this will mean more or less updates will kind of depend; the "fluffier" bits are easier to write, but there's not the same drive to get them down. And by "fluffy" I mean everyone's pissed and sad and everything's pretty terrible, but there's no immediate threat. So yeah, not actually fluffy.
> 
> I really do appreciate the feedback, you guys! Let me know what you think.


	16. Intervention

Dean couldn't remember the last time he was in front of so many judge-y eyes. Maybe when he'd been a kid, called into the school office, to meet with the counselor, an outside therapist, that chick with social services, and both the principals. He couldn't remember, now, what the transgression had been: a drawing, maybe. It hadn't mattered; they'd left town later that week. Nothing ever came of it. And what a weird thing to remember all these years later.

The first thing he'd done when he'd gotten back to the bunker was jump in the shower. He'd started off brushing his teeth and just ended up squeezing the toothpaste into his mouth. At this point he was almost considering chugging drain-o just to burn every bit of the taste out of himself. In the end, though, he just got out the whiskey bottle he'd hidden in the toilet tank a few weeks ago. It would have to do.

The hot water on his back felt good. Like maybe if he just stood there under it he could sweat the evil out of himself. Like a detox. He shouldn't have drunk the whiskey so fast, though; he thought he might be sick again. He told himself that was the reason he was on his knees, just letting the water fall over him. He was just dizzy. It had nothing to do with the flashes of memory, of torn flesh and screams being ripped out with their throats, the feeling of their writhing bodies under him. He gagged, holding his stomach, willing himself not to puke again. But why did she have to make him _feel_ so much of it? Why couldn't he just shove this down with the rest of it? He ran his hands over his face, feeling his ragged fingernails scratching over stubble. It was hard to believe it was _these_ hands that had caused so much pain. It was different with the Hell memories: He'd been dead. There was nothing really corporeal, not connected to this plane, anyway. But this… this was different. How could he just continue on, knowing what these hands had done? They didn't even seem to belong to him anymore; none of it did. He was no less trapped in this skin than when Abaddon had had control.

"All right, pull it together, princess," he growled at himself, disgusted. As if he had any right to feel any of that shit, anyway. Either deal with it or ignore it. Just keep moving forward.

He was more or less collected by the time he'd finished his shower. At least he was clean on the outside, now. Sam was ready with a med kit back in the main room, and helped patch him up, like they always did for one another. This was just like any other hunt, really. So what if nobody liked it. That was the job.

The others began to trickle in, one by one. Not actually saying anything. They stood around the table, looking at one another, waiting for Sam to finish taping his fingers and ribs. They kept their distance, still leaving the table between themselves and the brothers. When Meg came in, she was more than a little pissed.

"So you came through for us after all," Dean had said. He didn't really want to look at her, uncomfortable with the knowledge that she'd seen him when that bitch was wearing him.

"And you idiots didn't. Who the hell took their eyes off Crowley?"

"We were busy," Sam said, simply.

"Well that's just perfect," she sneered. "Now you've got _both_ potential rulers of Hell after your asses, and thanks to Dean-o, here, they know where your secret base is, too."

"It's defensible," Sam shrugged. "Crowley knew where Bobby lived for years and never could actually do anything about it. Besides, I think they're going to be a little too busy fighting each other to make much of an effort on us. Look, we got Dean back, didn't we?" he tried to convince the room at large.

"What do you want, a cookie?" Meg asked, unimpressed.

"We'll have to be more careful on supply runs," Castiel agreed, "but according to the updated map, it looks like the demon forces have started scattering, already. Their power is, at least, decentralized now."

Kevin put in, "And we stocked up recently, so maybe laying low is a good plan right now, anyway. The supplies could last us a few weeks. Well, I mean, most of the supplies. Meg already ate all the peanut butter."

Dean's face screwed up momentarily with an unpleasant memory of what _that_ sentence brought up, while Cas suddenly looked thoughtful.

"Since when do demons need to eat?" Sam asked, frowning.

"I don't _need_ it. I don't need to screw, either, if it comes down to it. But I _like_ it."

"Okay, first of all: _ew_ ," Dean put in. "And secondly, why are you even still here?"

"We asked her to stay, to help Kevin in case we didn't make it back," Cas supplied.

"Trust me, I'm not planning on joining your little Brady bunch. I'm out of here as soon as your little doohickey says the area's been cleared of angels and demons."

"Angels?" Sam asked, feeling a sharp lurch of sudden anxiety he couldn't quite pinpoint. "How many?"

"Um. A few," Charlie said, looking at her phone. "It has to be, if they're going to show up on here at all. There's a hot spot in the town, probably where they're clearing out the demons."

"Well at least they're good for something," Dean muttered, leaning over and grabbing a liquor bottle someone had conveniently left on the table.

"The angel issue seems to actually be kind of a problem," Charlie continued. "We've been keeping an eye on the news, and it seems to match up: they're having, like, skirmishes, I guess? And their numbers keep getting bigger. Especially in the Bible Belt area. Guess we shouldn't really be surprised, there…"

Dean scrubbed his eye, still fumbling one-handed with the alcohol. "And how's the research coming along, Kev?"

"Slowly. And we've been… distracted."

"Well. No more distractions, now. So, have at." Kevin nodded, but made no move to leave. Everyone was very carefully not looking at Sam as he was closing up the medical kit. Dean had a suspicion he knew why. "Hey, uh, Sammy? I'm starving, man, do we have any red meat in this place?"

"Uh, sure. Yeah. Course we do. You want me to…? Sorry, I guess you probably haven't eaten in a while. I mean anything but the… Yeah, we can have, like a family dinner, I guess. Sure. Let me go see what I can find," Sam said. It was almost a little sad how eager he was to fulfill this request, just pleased to have his brother back with him.

"I'll help," Meg said, easily, apparently having no interest in the conversation that was about to take place. And really, _someone_ should be keeping an eye on Sam.

They waited until they could hear Sam and Meg's bickering receding down the hall. And that's when the judge-y eyes really set in. "What is this, an intervention?" Dean grumbled, finally getting the screw-top off the liquor bottle.

They exchanged looks, and finally Cas pulled up a chair next to him, his hands clasped together. "We understand why you did it, Dean," he began.

"Then what else is there to talk about?" Dean snapped, taking a swig of alcohol. Somebody else must have been drinking from it, because the mouth was a little dirty. Ugh, what was that taste? Was that fucking peanut butter? It was, wasn't it.

"Come on," Kevin said, coming forward a little, too. "You have to know this is wrong."

"He said it would only be for a little while," Dean choked out, unable to even look at the kid. "He'd fix Sam and he'd leave. Sam was dying." His eyes snapped to Charlie's looking for understanding. "He was just lying in that hospital bed getting weaker and weaker. They were talking about… _comfort_ measures. But this angel, Ezekiel, he said he could fix it. And look: Sam's doing all right. Right? H-he's just taking a while, and he'll be better again." He turned to the others, seeing their expressions reflected on one another's faces. Pity, but still that reservation. "Look, I had a choice to make, and I made it."

"And Sam? Where was his choice in all of this?" Cas asked, gently.

Dean stared at him, still seeing where his fists had been used to punish Cas for his faith in Dean, and then away when he couldn't handle the look in his eyes anymore. His hands twitched, remembering what it was to not have his body belong to him anymore. "It's done," he said, quietly. "All right, it's done, already. Right or wrong. So I might as well at least get my bargain out of it. I… understand if none of you want to stick around, but I've still got to see this through."

There was a beat of silence as they all looked at one another again. "Dean, there's something else," Cas said, his expression pained. "You said it was Ezekiel you spoke with?"

"Yeah," Dean said, rubbing the back of his hand against his eyes. "Yeah, why, what of it?"

"Dean… that wasn't Ezekiel."

Dean's heart felt like it had stuttered to a halt in his chest before picking up again at a sprint. He felt dizzy, staring at Cas uncomprehendingly. "What?"

"I spoke with someone. An angel, who could see his true form. The being she described…" he shook his head.

"Well then who the hell is he?" Dean asked, his voice cracking with panic.

"We don't know. But he's old. Maybe one of the oldest. And likely powerful, even after the fall. Dean, you need to stay calm."

Dean laughed, helplessly, his shoulders shaking as he lowered his face into one of his hands. "Calm? You're saying I let an ancient monster into my brother, and I'm supposed to be calm now?"

"We still don't know whether he intends us any harm. And we're working on the solution," he said, looking to Kevin.

"I've been looking around, ever since you mentioned it a while back. Something that can suppress an angel and leave the vessel cognizant?"

"What if we need something bigger?" Dean asked. "What if we need to kick it out entirely? Cas? Like when they dragged your ass back upstairs to Big Brother you and left Jimmy behind?"

"That was with the power of the Host. Which we have no access to. Most of the other methods I know of to make an angel unwillingly leave inevitably destroy the vessel. We'll find something," Cas added, pained that he could not reassure him further.

"Meanwhile," Charlie picked it up, "we still don't know. Maybe he lied about his name, but he could be on the level about his intentions? Maybe?"

"Yeah, maybe," Dean said, not sounding very convinced. And here he hadn't thought his self-loathing could get any stronger. He drank some more of the gross liquor because damn it that's about all he deserved, wasn't it. "God, I'm so _stupid_."

"You were stupid for the right reasons," Cas said, bracingly.

"Very stupid," Kevin agreed. "But we'll get through this."

"Just… don't shut us out anymore," Charlie said. "Okay? I mean… we're supposed to be family right?"

When Dean had pictured this confrontation in his head, he'd seen it going a lot of ways. He'd seen their disgust with him. Their anger. He'd seen the respect die in their eyes as they all left him. What he'd never anticipated, what he'd never dared to let himself hope for, was this: their understanding, their compassion. Their love. What the hell had he ever done to deserve this?

Damn it he was _not_ going to cry. That would just be the last nail in his tough-guy coffin, and he wasn't ready for that yet.

He cleared his throat, his voice rough as he said, "Yeah. Yeah, I know. I'll uh… I'll try to remember that. I'm sorry, guys." He coughed again, trying to laugh. "What, is this when we all have a big group hug?"

"Should we?" Castiel seemed genuinely confused, looking to the others for guidance. "Is that customary after one has been chastised by a group?"

"Cas," Charlie said fondly, "can I just, like, keep you in my pocket?"

He gravely assessed the size of her pockets and judiciously determined, "No."

"Okay, moment's over," Dean said, clapping his hands as he stood with a groan. "Kevin, you'll keep us updated? Maybe I should look into different avenues. I mean now we know he's a dick. What about some of those angels in town? They're not falling into line with the others. Think any of them might be friendlies?"

"Possibly," Charlie hazarded. "But I'd say the odds are against it. I mean how many angels _didn't_ turn out to be dicks?"

"Still, worth looking into. It was just a suggestion. We'll keep looking into different options. And guys? Uh… Really. Thanks. For…"

He struggled with the words. For not abandoning him? For having his back? For helping him even though he'd already destroyed everything?

"For everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just having a lot of feels, okay? No, don't look at me.
> 
> (Oh, and in case you were wondering, Dean said Meg tasted like peanut butter back in "Sympathy for the Devil," 5X01.)
> 
> Don't forget to comment!


	17. I Will Lay Me Down

Really, Meg had been expecting more fireworks.

Or more stabbing. Or shouting. More something, anyway. But apparently everyone was all puppies and kittens with one another. Oh, maybe they were doing a kind of shift rotation to keep an eye on their resident woodland animal, and they sure seemed to be tearing the library apart trying to find some answers, but otherwise they were all still just cuddly piles of rainbows and fluff towards each other. If she didn't get out of here soon, _someone_ was going to get a knife in the damn eye.

They only just seemed to be tolerating her presence, too. That seemed fair enough. She'd just as well keep out of everyone's way until she could get out of here. So she wandered the maze-like halls, idly curious, but mostly bored. _This_ was their top-secret lair? The place smelled of cement and metal, lingering aftershave and self-righteousness. No, maybe it did suit these morons well enough. The whole place gave her the creeps. They could keep it.

She was just so crushingly _bored_. She even started hanging around their little War Room, looking over their updates on the World of Weird. They had a little pinboard up and everything, tracking the big movements, with printouts from the web on various deaths and missing persons. It was a little scary, to be honest. The Winchesters had been deadly when they were just a couple of idiots driving around in an old car. But this was freaking _organized_. They had that brainiac redhead running stats and manning a phone network, a prophet tucked away in their pockets, a fallen angel to offer on-the-spot advice, not to mention this gizmo tracking major supernatural movements across the country.

Meg could see the writing on the wall, and she wasn't so sure she liked what it was spelling out for her kind. Well, mostly for her. She didn't actually give a damn about the other demons. See, that was one thing Abaddon had never quite cottoned on to. Just because they were demons, it didn't mean they were exactly sold on the cause. They were essentially just rotten humans, and that meant all the usual vices: laziness, greed, and above all self-interest. Out of the scores of demons she'd had to slime off of her boots, she could probably name on one hand the number who'd look at this set-up and still be all gung-ho for the demon apocalypse.

This seemed to be playing out, according to their demon-tracker doohickey. There were some battle sites, but mostly the other demons seemed to have adopted a kind of wait-and-see policy. They were willing to follow Abaddon for as long as she was calling the shots and putting her heavy boots on the necks of dissenters, but now that Crowley was active again, the large-scale possessions and mayhem had significantly died down. This might also have been due to the angelic activity, though. Most of the angels didn't seem to give a shit how many humans died, too busy with their own in-fighting, but there still seemed to be a few little bands of the tree-toppers roaming around the country in their smite-mobiles. Well, the ones who weren't exploding out of their meatsuits, anyway. And that was turning into a bit of a mess in and of itself.

"You think you should be doing something about all that?" she'd asked Castiel. She'd come upon him studying the angelic section of the pinboard with a familiar crease between his eyebrows.

"I think we are, already, by aiding the prophet. There has to be a way to reverse this."

"Think that's a good idea? This isn't exactly your first little misstep. From the sounds of it, right now they're all running on their auxiliary batteries after Heaven cut the juice. You plug them back in, some of them might still hold a grudge and come after you."

"I'm aware of that," he dismissed it. "But I can't leave them like this. Falling. If I can find a way to make it right…" He shook his head. "I should get back to helping Kevin. We can't afford distractions right now."

Oh, yes, the little prophet. Ever since the Samchurian Candidate had come out, he'd holed himself up in his room and painted the whole place over with angel sigils and demon traps until even walking past his door made Meg physically uncomfortable. He'd also dragged most of the research in there with him, so if Dean or Cas wanted to lend a hand, they had to go to him. Sam, of course, was right out of the equation. He'd begun to complain of splitting migraines, seeming to strike whenever he got a hankering to look in on Kevin to how the research was coming along. Sam had been baffled and a little apologetic about it at first, trying hard to be convincing that he wasn't just faking it to get out of work. Not that anyone would have accused him of it. Winchester the elder made up some bull about resonating with the Word from the trials or something, and it looked like Sam had at least bought that. But it just seemed to make him more earnest than ever to work on the pinboard with Charlie, being useful in some capacity, like some pathetic broken-legged puppy still trying to drag a stick back to its master.

In fact, the whole lot of them were a bunch of sad sacks. With their meaningless little research, their disgusting optimism, all this lovey-dovey crap about trusting one another and believing in blah-blah power of love compels you. What a crock of shit. These guys were some of the most messed up, broken, stupid bastards she'd ever met. Watching their death-throes against a world that was going to hell was like watching a train wreck in slow-motion, only not nearly as fun. Honestly, she was just through with them and their crap. They could take their little family thing and cram it for all she cared.

And really, this whole damned mess was _their_ fault. It was their fault the angels were kicked out of Heaven and down here to give her shit. It was their fault Abaddon was in this time period at all, of their family's fault. It was their damned fault she'd died; their fault she'd come back unforgiven but not wholly demon anymore; their fault she was stuck in this aching goddamn body stuck in this stupid bunker stuck in fucking _Kansas_. In point of fact, it was their fault her life was so meaningless. They'd stolen her causes, killed her idols, empowered her enemies, and still basically didn't give a rip about her. It was their fault she wasn't _right_ anymore.

But there had to be a way to _get_ right. The cloud-hopper had said she'd begun to be purified, and that must have been what was messing her up so much. She hadn't wanted to admit it, but this issue went deeper than the fact she was stuck in her meatsuit and feeling it a lot more. Ever since Sam had messed with her mojo, some old memories had started cropping up. Things she'd thought wholly expunged from her time down below. Things from her life before: her sins and misdeeds, of course, but those didn't bother her so much anymore. No, what was really painful, what was ripping her apart, were the better memories; the little kindnesses in her life, the small expressions in her hopes and dreams. She didn't need any of that anymore. She didn't _want_ any of that. She was a demon, damn it, not some mewling newborn. Whatever this was, whatever little purity she'd gained, it was going to kill her if she didn't do something to fix it. Blackened her soul; scrape that scab until it healed over with hard, shiny scar tissue again.

She was toying with an angel blade, idly scratching herself with it. It stung, but only the way a normal knife might. She wasn't sure what it would do if she were actually stabbed with it, but she imagined it wouldn't be fatal. Still, it worked well enough on humans. Or little ex-angels. Stupid, innocent, sweet little ex-angels. With their stupid hair and their stupid blue eyes, stirring up the cold coal of her heart, creating the fire in her chest and her eyes. Really, it was his fault, too. Making her soft and _weak_. He'd been fun for a while, but now…? She ran her finger along the edge of the blade. If she did this, there really would be no turning back. She didn't think anything could purify that away for her. She'd be herself again, dark and thorny and damned for all eternity. Just as things were meant to be.

Meg moved before she could talk herself out of it, slinking along the halls. The brothers way-too-grim had taken Charlie and gone off for a few hours on a vampire hunt. She had hours to do the deed and still get away. Maybe when she was back to normal, she'd ditch this meatsuit. Find another one: younger, cuter. Something pure and good that she could corrupt and maim until she got tired of it and left for another. Maybe she'd join Abaddon after all. She seemed to know how to party, at least.

There was music drifting through the air, coming from one of the sub-basements. He'd turned on the stereo, linked up to Pandora or some station playing some folksy crap. ( _When you're down and out/ when you're on the street/ when evening falls so hard/ I will comfort you_.) Something like a ballad, something sweet and melodic and melancholy. ( _I'll take your part/ When darkness comes_ ) Her grip tightened on her blade ( _And pain is all around_ ), advancing on the recreation room. The piano's notes felt like they were tracing over her spine, making her shiver all over ( _Like a bridge over troubled water/ I will lay me down_ ). A voice lifting and falling like a lover's breath, building to climax. Meg's teeth gritted as she pushed ( _Sail on silver girl/ Sail on by_ ) the door open. He was there on the couch ( _Your time has come_ ), his back to her. Not a care or a worry in the world ( _to shine_ ). His head tilted back on the seat cushions, listening to the music. Throat exposed. Just sitting pretty ( _All your dreams_ )after ruining her life ( _are on their way_ ), taking everything important to her, destroying her very _identity_. Now. Now was the time to strike. ( _See how they shine_ ). Strike and it would be over. She wouldn't have to feel ( _Oh if you need a friend_ ), to think about this ever again ( _I'm sailing right behind_ ). Just end it. _End it._

She was standing behind him, the rush of blood pounding through her veins. Her hands were slick on the cold metal that never heated with her body temperature. It would be so easy. He looked like he'd been mending a shirt, but it was idle in his hands. His eyes were closed, so she wouldn't even have to see the hurt in them when she ended him. She was poised. She was ready. She was willing.

_Like a bridge over troubled water/ I will ease your mind_

_Like a bridge over troubled water/ I will ease your mind_

The last notes of the song died away. A quiet breath. Castiel opened his eyes, suddenly aware someone else was in the room. "Meg," he said in greeting, reaching over to dial down the music's volume so they could speak.

She was acting strangely. Stand-offish, stilted. She'd made a brief nod in acknowledgement, but now was coming around the other side of the couch to sit next to him. Something seemed to be troubling her: she was toying with her weapon, seeming unconscious of the way she passed it from hand to hand.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, looking pointedly at the blade.

Her eyes followed his, and her laugh was a little strained. "It was nothing important," she said, setting it down with a clatter on the end table.

He was getting used to her sudden bouts of sexually-charged intimacy, but there was something in the way she leaned over then to lay a hand along his cheek. A sort of tenderness that seemed new and strange on her. Her eyes were gentle and a little pained. He was surprised to find that she was wiping away tears. "You like that song?"

"It… It reminded me of the Host. The harmony… The choirs would…" He wasn't sure if he should feel embarrassed. He tried to recall if, over the course of his long life, he had ever shed tears before. All the awful things he'd done, all the times he'd been burdened with pain and regret, all the friends he'd lost—it seemed silly to start crying _now_. "I'm not sure I like being human anymore," he said, instead. "All these… unwanted feelings and memories. Music never used to move me against my will like that. This, more than anything else, seems to bypass all reason and filters to reach the heart of a human. Once there it takes root, blossoming into pain or pleasure, and sometimes an amalgam of the two. It seems…" he trailed off, confused by her expression. "Meg? Did I say something wrong?"

"No." She lifted his arm so she could rest against him more comfortably, running a sleeve under her nose before tapping on the shirt he'd been mending. "Those are some nice stitches, Clarence."

"Thank you."

"Kind of a girly talent, isn't it?"

"If by 'girly,' you mean practical. Then yes, I suppose it is 'girly,'" he said, unruffled.

Meg grunted, running her finger down the seam. She remembered fixing the hem of a dress, warm cotton running through her hands as she smoothed it over her knee. She could still smell wood-smoke and feel little fingers clutching at her sleeve.

"I used to have to do the mending on my little sisters' clothes."

Why had she told him that? Why had she even remembered that? There was too much wrapped up in it. Too many other memories. Drinking warm tea wrapped in thin blankets, toes going cold on the bare floor. Threading needles for her little sisters when their hands would shake too much to do it themselves. Fixing tears to her own dresses from impatient hands, cringing when she'd forget and brush against one of the bruises on her legs, squinting against the dirty sunlight filtered through a cracked window.

He must have been getting better with reading people, though, because he didn't ask her any questions. He was just present for her while the dark tangle in her built into a solid knot, and then unwound again as she let it go.

"You're leaving again, aren't you?" Cas asked, quietly, when her posture had lost its rigidity.

"Yeah," she sighed. Then she poked his side, saying, "Don't sound so glum. We knew this was coming. If you think I'm going to wait around with the Righteous Brothers any longer than I have to, you must've fallen from Heaven headfirst."

His voice was gentle. "I'll miss you, Meg."

"Shut up."

There was a rustle by the door, and they both craned their heads back to see Kevin rush in, his hands full of papers. "Where's Dean?" he asked, a wild-eyed look about him.

"He went with Sam on a hunt. What is it? Have you found something?"

Kevin hesitated, and then nodded. "I think so. But I don't think you're going to like it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun.
> 
> This chapter doesn't advance much plot-wise, and it's very Meg-centered, but it's because we probably won't be seeing much of her, again. And yeah, she was totally going to ice Cas. Like I said in an earlier chapter, demons tend to focus their aggression on those that remind them most of what it was like to be human.
> 
> Let me know what you guys think!


	18. Decepticon

This wouldn't have been Dean's first option.

His first option was more along the lines of shove it away and never think about it again. But that didn't seem to have been working out for him too well.

They'd actually all returned from the hunt in rather high spirits. Charlie's work on the weird-ar had really paid off, and she was talking about trying to find a way to refine the signal so that a hunter could actually track prey on the ground. This idea had come to her rather suddenly when she was ducking out of the way of a neck-biter who'd tried to rush her in their nest, and she had a few seconds to lament how her brilliant innovation would never be realized because her wonderful, genius head was going to be thrown across the room in a few seconds. Luckily, it hadn't come to that, and for that all parties were rather glad. Well, except for the vampire. He wasn't glad. He was just dead. Also it was his head on the floor, so that was a definite win.

The good feeling didn't really last. Charlie had been feeling a little uncomfortable around Sam ever since finding out about his silent passenger. It was hard to feel much camaraderie when there was such a big secret hanging over everything. It only got worse when they got back to the bunker, where the air felt suddenly very oppressive and stagnant. Like a crypt. Maybe it had just been missing its rowdy boys. Maybe in an hour they would be gathered around, drinking beers in the bright-lit kitchen, and laughing to keep back this still, empty silence.

"Charlie," Kevin said as she'd gone past his door, "can you come in here a minute?"

She'd only just finished showering off the vampire yuck. She didn't want to face the worried prophet in his cocoon of protective wards. Things only looked grimmer when she spotted the ex-angel, sitting with his head bowed as though in prayer, and Dean standing over by the further wall with his arms crossed, not looking at anyone. It felt like she was stepping into a vacuum as she made herself go over that threshold. "What's up?" she'd asked, levelly.

For Sam's part, he couldn't figure out where everyone had gotten off to. Usually they at least greeted one another after a hunt, but he hadn't heard a peep from anyone since they'd stepped in the door. Well, sure, those that had actually been on the hunt separated to clean off, but that was hours ago. Everything just felt very… off. It was so hard to tell time in this place. It messed with your head. There was no natural sunlight, and it seemed like hours just slipped away from him sometimes. And that… didn't feel right. It felt like more than just his circadian rhythm acting up from the artificial lights. And there was the way everyone had been looking at him. Like he had some terminal illness. Well, sure, he wasn't up to his normal weight, yet. He'd been pretty sick, after all. And… and maybe he'd lost a little more muscle mass. But not that much. Maybe he'd been sleeping more. Maybe he'd lost some color being out of the sun for so long. Maybe… maybe he was a little off.

Sam ran a hand through his hair, and thought about his options. He didn't feel weak exactly. He could still hunt. It just felt sometimes like there was a little wind-up cog inside of him that could stop at any moment and make him drop like a sack of potatoes. It made him feel a little guilty. If he really wasn't getting much better, he owed to the people he was hunting with to tell them. Tell Dean at least. And things had seemed to be going so well, there. He didn't want to burden Dean with any more worries. It was easier just to be _well._ These last few months, with the trial, with everything, it hadn't been easy on Dean for him to see his little brother like that. So why couldn't things just be _easy_ for once? Why couldn't this just go _away_? _Why wasn't he well?_

And really, where was everyone? It was suspiciously quiet for six people to be running around in here, especially considering the racket Meg seemed to make everywhere she went. "Guys?" Sam called, checking all the main areas. It wasn't until he was approaching Kevin's room and saw the door hanging open that he remembered that he should stay away. Resonance, or whatever, that feedback stuff was still apparently messing with him from the Trials. Only he actually felt pretty okay, just now. Maybe he really was getting better after all. "Guys?" he peeked his head in.

They looked like they'd all gathered for a funeral, sitting around in a half-circle with these glum expressions. Kevin's room was kind of a mess. Sam hadn't been in here in a while, but it looked like the kid had gone a little nuts again. There was paint all over the walls, with a bunch of slashed sigils that weren't intact anymore. He hoped the poor kid hadn't been getting Crowley visions, again. And damn, that was another thing Sam felt crappy about. Another thing to fix.

Sam glanced around and came up one short. "Meg's not here?"

"No, she left," Cas said. He was sitting at Kevin's desk, staring at his notes with eyes only half-focused.

"And Kevin's got a lead with the God-rock. There's… He thinks there's a way to reverse the spell."

Well that seemed like more a moment for celebration than… whatever the hell this was. "What's with all of you?" Sam asked, stepping into the room. There was absolutely _no_ way anyone was that broken up about Meg leaving. Not even Cas would care _that_ much. "Dean?" None of them seemed to want to look at him. Dean looked like he'd been punched in the gut.

"We've just been, uh, having a little chat," Dean said, his voice gravelly. He got up from his chair and moved to close the door.

"About what?" Sam asked in some confusion.

"You," Dean said, turning.

The last sound Sam heard was the strike of a match from somewhere behind him.

And then there was no pretending the thing standing in the middle of the ring of holy oil was anything close to human as it stepped around its cage. Inside the fire barrier, Sam's eyes were a cobalt burn of wrath. "What is the meaning of this? Release me!"

"I don't think so, Paco," Dean spat, harshly, coming right up to the edge of the ring. "See you _lied_ to me. You've _been_ lying. Sam's still not healed—"

"It takes time—"

"—and you didn't even give your real _name_. So if you're not here to help, I want to know what the hell you're doing here."

Its eyes darted around the room. "Sam is sleeping, now. Do you really want to have to explain this to him?"

"You know, I really don't give a rat's ass anymore. I'm tired of you using him as your hostage."

"No. It's not what you think," it began.

"Really? Cuz what I'm thinking right now is whether I like my wings regular fry or extra crispy, so you'd better start talking before I make up my mind. Let's start with your name."

"I am Ezekiel."

"Bull," Castiel said, curtly.

Dean demanded. "Did Metatron send you?"

"I am here to help."

"Try again," Kevin snapped.

There was actual hatred in the glowing look the angel turned on the prophet. "You," it said in a low voice. "Hiding away behind your little wards. With your _tablet_."

There was a screech of sound, like a kettle about to boil over, and suddenly the tablet on the table fractured and splintered, blasting apart. Charlie had been sitting nearest and jumped away with a cry of alarm. The fragments didn't cause any injury, but it was in many pieces now. It was a fairly impressive display. Nothing like Raphael taking out the Eastern seaboard's electricity, but still quite a lot for an angel trapped in holy fire.

"You knew, didn't you?" Dean said. "About Cas's grace. It's what's holding this all together. The spell's using it as a battery. Take it out, the whole thing goes blooey. That's why you wouldn't let him die, why you kept bringing him back; you don't give a damn about him, about anybody, you were afraid he'd find it in Heaven and throw a monkey-wrench in all of this."

"You don't understand."

"Is that why you're here?" Castiel asked, quietly. "Or was that a side mission after you discovered it would be too difficult to kill the prophet and get away with it?"

"You weren't even supposed to _be_ here," the angel hissed at him. "If you weren't so good at dying you would've been _far_ away from here and the prophet's work could have just stagnated until time ran out."

"So there is still time," Charlie said. That earned her a _look_ almost as bad as the one he'd thrown at Kevin.

"And Crowley?" Castiel said, glaring. "You released him, didn't you?"

"At least Crowley is _reasonable_. We still need a working relationship with Hell. Abbadon is a… thug. She spreads chaos. It was in _everyone's_ interests to see Crowley reinstated."

"Yeah, but especially in _yours_ , apparently. Who _are_ you?" Dean asked, getting frustrated.

There was a sound, above them. As of a great howling that shook the room to its foundations. An alarm began to blare, distantly, as the bunker responded to the threat. They could hear warded doors slamming as a frustrated being continued to throw itself at their defenses.

Dean glanced towards the ceiling, apparently unimpressed. "That your boyfriend out there? Shoulda told us you were expecting gentlemen callers. I woulda set aside an afternoon."

"You can't stop this," the angel hissed. "It _is_ too late. It was _always_ too late for you. Ever since you were cast out of the Garden. You didn't _deserve_ this Heaven."

"Ooh, that's _somebody's_ true colors showing. You know, I don't really care what your agenda is anymore. I don't even care what your name is. I just want you out of my brother."

"He'll _die_."

"Yeah, so you keep saying, sparky. And when and if that happens, you can bet your ass I'm gonna track you down and roast you hotter than the rest of your bastard brothers combined. But for right now, I just want you _gone_."

The thing gave him a level look. "Or what? You'll kill me? No," it shook its head, watching Dean's jaw clench. "You gave up closing Hell for Sam. You wouldn't trade his life away so easily."

Dean exchanged looks with the others, his throat working, before turning his hard gaze back on the angel. "I'm giving you one last chance. Leave him. Now."

Their eyes were locked with a wall of fire between them. Neither seemed willing to move. When all at once, another assault came, knocking them all off their feet as the ground seemed to buck and writhe beneath them. The sprinkler system overhead shrieked to life, dousing the room… the flames.

" _Stop him!_ " Dean tried to shout, but the walls and the floor had all confused themselves in a jumble, and by the time he was back on his feet, Kevin's door was hanging ajar, the creature escaped into the rest of the bunker. Everyone was shouting, panicked, but Dean slammed the shut door again, leaning against it, saying, "Everyone okay? It's all right, he can't leave the bunker. Kevin, get those sigils repainted."

"But he's _loose_ ," Charlie said.

"Yeah, I _know_ he's loose. He can't get very far. _Shit_ ," he added, finding his own spray canister empty. He threw it back in the bucket rather harder than was necessary.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Cas said. It was one thing to hold suspicions, but he knew how much it could hurt to have them confirmed.

"Never mind 'sorry.' Just get those sigils up. We don't want him back in here."

"So now what?" Charlie asked, uneasily.

"Now… we move on to Plan B," Dean said.

Kevin didn't want to be indelicate, but it had to be said. "We don't have enough holy oil. That was pretty much the last of it."

"It's too bad your girlfriend took off when she did," Charlie muttered, elbowing Cas. "Maybe she could've smoked into Sam, given him a clue to kick the angel out?"

"She's not capable of that right now. She cannot leave her body. Also, I'm not sure she's my—"

"We don't need any of that," Dean said. "Weren't you guys listening? That dickweed said Sam's _asleep_ , right? Well? Looks like we just need to do a little dream-walking. Plant the idea in Sam's head that the angel's there. Totally Inception that bitch."

"Dean," Cas said in some discomfort, "you do realize I'm currently incapable of doing that."

"Yeah, but you know we did manage to have a life _before_ you came strolling up—"

"Busting down barn doors and exploding lights. Taking shotgun blasts and a knife stab straight to the heart," Charlie put in, starry-eyed.

"That was actually rather unpleasant."

"Still the best entrance _ever_ ," she assured him.

"— _and_ ," Dean said, giving her a brief impatient look, "we happen to have a way to get into someone's head _without_ the angel mojo. It's a little plant called African Dream Root. I've still got some, and we've got more than enough of Sam's hair in the shower drain, as I've been pointing out to him for _years_."

"You think that'll work?" Kevin asked, a little skeptical. "Technically, Sam's body is still awake."

"It's worth a shot," Dean said. "I know where the Dream Root is, in my room. Cas, you go get the hair. At least we know he won't be trying to punch your ticket. Charlie, you and Kevin stay in here, keep warding. He'll probably figure the damage from the tablet's been done, but who knows, it could be vindictive bitch."

It actually wasn't that hard to get the supplies. It was a brief run down the hall for him to scour through his belongings, and then another dash back. Castiel took longer, having to travel further. They could hear the thing screaming in frustration, using Sam's voice, as its exit was blocked. There were still alarms blaring, and here and there the sprinkler system was still going wonky. Dean spared maybe a second or two of concern for what that water damage might do to some important, ancient documents, or what the pissy angel might do, if it decided to start wrecking the place, but ultimately he decided he didn't much care right now. So he ground up the root, and when Cas arrived with the hair he threw that in, too.

"Ew, did you really have to get it out of the shower drain?" Charlie asked. "He probably had some hair left in his brush. Or maybe you could've swished his toothbrush around in there just to get the DNA?"

Dean looked at his glass and back at her. "Oh, so _now_ you mention it?"

"…Sorry."

"I should go with you," Castiel said. "I have more experience navigating dreamscapes. And with two of us, we could possibly find Sam faster. Or run interference against the interloper."

Dean was still trying, rather unsuccessfully, to mix Sam's hairs in. He'd be lucky if he didn't choke. Why was his hair so _long_. First thing, when all of this was over, Sam was getting a freaking haircut.

"Do you go into Dean's dreams a lot?" Charlie was asking. "There's been speculation…"

" _Who's_ been speculating?" Dean demanded, momentarily derailed.

She gestured, vaguely, at her iphone. "You know. The… fandom."

Dean wondered, not for the first time, if the whole damned mess with those stupid books couldn't just be _deleted_ from existence somehow. But he sensed a losing battle, here, instead deciding to just ignore it. " _If_ this works," he said, instead, "we should wake up around the same time as Sam. Otherwise, well, guess we'll go for Plan C. Whatever that may be. If we don't make it back over the rainbow, don't let Metatron's little Decepticon out of here without a fight. Make him bleed for it."

He gave a little salute with his glass, and then choked down a mouthful with some of Sam's hair. He passed the cup over to Cas, quickly, sitting down as he felt it beginning to take effect.

"See you guys on the other side."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This was kind of chock-full of revelations. I'm not sure I did the BEST job explaining it, but this was just turning into a huge exposition fest and I'm lazy, so it is what it is. As a brief recap, then: This angel (I'm not naming names right now) is totally working with Metatron. The plan was to create a new Heaven all along. He went there to assassinate the prophet (or otherwise keep him from learning about the spell's reversal) and kind of stuck around to keep Cas from dying, going to Heaven, and getting his Grace back. And yeah, there's a time limit on the recovery. Whatever time really means in this context. I think the angel would've just stuck around and been vaguely helpful right until time ran out before just ditching them, so that's why he hasn't been actively evil. Oh, but he hasn't done shit for Sam, really. Go figure.
> 
> Um. I think that covers everything.
> 
> So, yeah. Moving right along now. I've been distracted with homework, and we got some new info from the actual series. The recent development—that all the souls are caught in the Firmament and unable to get into Heaven—is kind of at odds with what I was planning. We'll see how it works out.
> 
> As always, comments are really appreciated!


	19. Goodnight, Irene

"I'm not seeing the pattern here, Dean."

Another motel. Another sunken mattress. Another town, another job, another greasy burger from another broken-down little diner.

"I dunno, man, it's looking to me like a wendigo," Dean said from around a mouthful of processed beef. "People disappearing in the woods, reports of weird noises…"

"Yeah, but what about the ones who made it back? Wendigos usually don't just decide to let a few go."

"I'm not even sure those were intended victims," Dean scoffed. "They were just a couple of old drunks, man. Probably just looking to share the limelight, you know, get a drink or two out of it."

"So, what, we don't believe them because their story sounds a little crazy?"

"Uh, no, smartass, we don't believe them because they freaking _reeked_ of alcohol."

Sam rubbed his eyes. He felt kind of… strange. A little loose. Really good, though. Better than he'd felt in ages. It felt _good_ to just be on a hunt, not worrying about… You know, he couldn't even remember what he'd really been all that worried about.

"Whatever. All the sightings so far have centered on this cabin in the woods, right? That seems worth checking out."

"O _kay_ ," Dean said, rolling up the wrapper from the burger and tossing it in the bin, "but if you find some suspicious Latin, maybe translate it for yourself before you read it out-loud. Because we do _not_ need to be waking up any more evil dead."

Sam let out a huff of air, slinging on his jacket. "You're an idiot."

"Hey, just don't come crying to me when some tree makes you its bitch."

It was one of those late-summer days that make it feel like there never was such a thing as winter. The windows were all rolled down to let some of the ever-repeated music fly down the highway behind them, lifting back into the clear blue sky with Dean's off-key singing. Sam breathed in deep the familiar smells of leather and gunpowder. It was kind of a tugging sensation in his chest, a mix of nostalgia and peace. If he closed his eyes, he felt that time would almost cease to exist. There was just the road, the car, his family. Like it had always been. And he was all right with that. He would be all right just driving like this forever, surrounded by the familiar. It was really not the kind of feeling he needed going into a hunt, but nice anyway.

The sun was barely visible over the trees by the time they got to their destination. The road was washed out, so they had to hike the last half a mile on foot. Dean was still joking in undertones, and as much as Sam tried to act like he was too mature to even acknowledge it, it was a losing battle: Dean had always been able to make him laugh. Even when they'd been kids and Sam had been moaning on the couch for going on two days with a bad stomach bug, Dean had been able to make him laugh until he threw up again. And it felt good to joke again; to see Dean putting forth an effort, to be able to let go of… of whatever had been keeping them from laughing. It all seemed so far away now.

"Well, there it is," Dean said as they came around the last bend, "home sweet creepy-ass home." The "cabin" was even more run-down than they'd been led to believe. More of a shack than anything. It was also a lot older than they had been expecting by at least fifty years, judging from the state of disrepair and original construction. They'd discussed the possibility that this might have been the work of a vengeful spirit, so the first thing they did was to check around the property for a grave-marker. Not finding one, they did a few more circuits of the house, eventually uncovering some very odd-looking footprints that looked strangely human, if elongated.

Given the location and general atmosphere, Sam suggested, "Maybe it's a tulpa?"

They were standing inside the ramshackle cabin. There were a few sticks of furniture and a very grimy mirror, but for the most part the place just looked smashed up. Footprints from teenagers who'd come here on a dare had broken up the dust, and in one corner there was a discarded condom Sam was very studiously ignoring. Dean pulled a couple of beers out of his bag, offering one to Sam. While Dean was apparently fine with drinking warm beer—now _there_ was a real freakin' surprise—Sam decided to pass for now.

"I'm telling you dude, _wendigo_."

"The timing of the attacks is off. Anyway, this is the _wrong_ part of the country."

"We found one in Colorado."

"One. One was that far west in the history of ever."

"Whatever, dude. I'm gonna go put up some of those Anasazi symbols before that thing comes and eats us. You go ahead and look for a tulpa sigil if you want to, but I doubt you're gonna find it. Oh, and when I'm right—because I know I am—you'd better be ready with those road flares to roast the bitch."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam said, still unconvinced, as Dean headed out to write the protective symbols around the outside. He could hear him out there, whistling, occasionally cursing as he stumbled over something in the dark and apparently spilling beer on himself. Well, it was his turn for laundry next; he could deal with it. And it wasn't like it was the first time those clothes had been soaked in an alcohol haze. Sometimes it was almost a miracle the vapors coming off of his brother's clothes didn't self-ignite.

But that wasn't fair. His drinking was getting better. A _lot_ better, actually, now that Sam thought of it. Everything seemed to finally be getting pretty okay again. That is compared to… Well, whatever had been going on, it was at least over, now. They could just be on another hunt, and not have to think about… There had been something, hadn't there? Something bigger, something hanging over their heads. Funny, he just couldn't dredge up a single worry right now. Like, his heart rate was up a little, and he was alert for attacks as he moved about the shack, but it was just the normal thrill of the hunt. It felt normal. Pure, somehow.

Sam's phone rang in his pocket, and he quickly dug it out, to silence it. "Dean?"

His brother's voice was tight, but controlled. "Something's following me."

"Stay there," Sam said immediately.

"No, gotta keep moving. I can feel it watching me, but it hasn't made a move yet."

"Where are you?"

"Other side of the house from the doorway. I was doing another circuit of the perimeter. It's inside the circle. You're right, it's not a wendigo."

"Visual?" Sam asked, hurrying to the door. This damned warped wood didn't seem to want to budge. Sam rattled at it one-handed before securing the phone between his cheek and shoulder to try with two.

"Nah, every time I turn the damned thing scurries out of sight. Looked big, though, that one glimpse I had. Wait," Dean said, and Sam froze in his efforts to leave. "It's gone quiet. I don't think it's on me, anymore."

"What it just gave up?" Sam said, trying not to grunt as he _hauled_ on the door. "Why would it do that?"

"I dunno, man. I'm coming your way."

"There's something wrong with the door. Hang on, let me find a window," Sam said, finally giving up. He turned.

Something flickered at the edge of his vision. Like when you turn your head too fast and a little hair blows into your eyes. Sam had taken a few steps from the doorway when he froze. Turning his head just a little to try to see behind him. And then whirling around to see… nothing. Still nothing.

"Sammy?"

"I think… there's something _here_ ," Sam said, trying to stay calm. He turned again, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, and yet _feeling something standing somewhere behind him_. "Dean…" It was too dark in here, even with his flashlight. He could smell old stone and rotting wood, a human habitation turning back to nature. He couldn't stay here. He needed to find a window.

Sam took a few steps, trying to resist the urge to spin around again. His palms itched, his pulse racing. He could hear Dean cursing and running on the other side of the phone and then the rattle of the door, his fists pounding for admittance. "Sammy!"

There was a memory tickling at the back of Sam's mind. ( _Sometimes I lives in the country_ ) Something from a book. He remembered sitting in a motel bed with his knees up by his ears ( _Sometimes I lives in town_ ), a flashlight clamped in his hand, trying not to wake Dean up in the next bed over with the light. The school librarian had recommended the book to him a few towns back; some sweet lady who'd noticed his interests ( _Sometimes I haves a great notion_ ) and just been trying to be friendly. Oregon: they'd been in Oregon at the time. That partially explained it ( _To jump into the river an' drown_ ), given the book's setting. Given the current setting.

There'd been a mention, somewhere in there. A throwaway story of childhood teasing about a creature you could meet out in the woods somewhere. Something that would track you, staying behind you no matter how fast you turned. There were a few details wrong about it. Word of mouth turned to oral tradition turned back into novel formatting tended to skew things here and there. But he remembered the description: fast as quicksilver to stay _behind_ a man's back at all times. They don't show in the mirror, don't ya know, and that's how ya know they're there, kid. Cuz you look back there, you look in the mirror, and wouldn't you know it, you don't see _nothing_. Ain't it funny?

Sam shook himself because he was no Leland Stamper. Although just then he wished he hadn't remembered all the parallels of coming back from college to the _family business_ because damn it he couldn't go into a freaking literary analysis right now when he could still hear his brother fighting to get in to reach him, when he could still feel something _standing behind him_ , moving with him as he turned…

"A hidebehind," he said into the phone.

"What?" Dean called from outside, too busy trying to find a window.

"Dean it's a hidebehind! That's why it kept stopping, it doesn't like alcohol!" He could almost laugh at it: That it would be his better drinking habits that ended up killing him. Go figure.

But that just meant that if he could get to Dean's rucksack, he might be able to get out of this after all. Only where was it? The dimensions of this cabin seemed odd, suddenly, like there were a lot more rooms than there used to be. It was also looking a little less dilapidated, a little more concrete, and where had all the windows gone? Even Dean's voice seemed further away, like the walls had gotten more solid sometime in the past few minutes. Sam turned fully expecting to face an empty room again…

Only there was something there this time.

"Cas?" Sam asked, stunned. He hadn't even heard the flapping of wings. And Castiel was looking haggard, wearing just a loose button-down and _jeans_ , of all things. But… but then he had been dressing like that since he'd become human. It was so weird. Sam had almost completely forgotten that had even happened. But that still didn't explain… "How did you get in here?"

"There's no time. You have to follow me. Quickly. I'll explain as we go," Cas said, looking to the wall where they could hear more pounding from without. His movements were controlled, but there was an edge of fear to them. He hurried towards the next room, gesturing Sam after him like they were about to make some sort of escape. There was another loud banging coming from behind them, and Sam turned, feeling the movement of the creature tracking behind his back ( _fast as quicksilver_ ) to avoid his gaze, and when he turned back Cas was gone again.

"Cas? _Cas?_ " Sam called, and where was the door anymore? Or the other rooms? How many had there been to begin with, and why did it feel like he was walking in circles? He put his back to the wall, eyes scanning around the room in nervous glances, just trying to hold steady. Something was _off_ about all of this. Those sounds coming from outside: They didn't really sound so much like Dean anymore as they just sounded _loud_ , and _persistent_ , as something tried its best to break in. Sam's cell had gone dead, and even by shouting he didn't think he could reach Dean. And through all of it was just this permeating sense that the world had gone fundamentally _wrong_ somehow.

Sam gritted his teeth. First thing's first: he needed to get ahold of that alcohol to protect himself. He edged along the room, eyes darting here and there, his back sliding over the rough edges of the wall. His heart was pounding in his ears, straining for sound, eyes clawing at the dark. It was worse than just the sensation of an unknowable watching eye. Worse even than feeling a wall at your back and yet sensing something _still behind_. There was a wrongness that seemed to come from right inside of him, turning his guts to water so that his long legs shook beneath him, footfalls too loud over creaking old wood. Dean's bag was still just out of reach when he thought he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye, down at the other end of the room. He dared not turn too fast, sliding down the wall to reach the bag, yanking at its zipper, he strained his vision and _saw_ there, in the grimy mirror on the wall, himself, and coming from the other side…

"Dean!" Sam spun, still very shaken. "How did you get in here? Did you find a window? Hang on, I think the hidebehind—"

Sam nearly had the wind knocked out of him when Dean pulled him into a backbreaking hug saying, "Thank Christ, I _found_ you."

"Well, yeah, _duh_ ," Sam wheezed, "I've been in here the whole time. Jeez, how drunk _are_ you? No wonder the hidebehind left you alone."

"Sammy, we need to get the hell out of here."

"Yeah, I know, after we take care of the—"

"No, _now_. Sam, none of this is real. You're asleep."

"I'm…?" It probably said a lot about their lives how swiftly he was willing to accept this statement. "Wait. Are you… dream-walking? Is that what this is? Why?"

"Think back," Dean insisted. "What's the last thing you remember?"

It was _hard_ to break free of it. It all _felt_ real. The dimension-changing cabin, the very-real threat from the hunt, the sounds of pounding and howling still coming from outside, the past few days of tracking and hearing witnesses' stories, but… "The bunker. We were in Kevin's room when… everything stopped."

"Sam, you gotta listen to me, all right," Dean said, his voice strained, speaking quickly. "I _screwed_ up, man."

There is was. The wrongness inside, squirming all through him. Sam took a step back, seeing Dean was close to tears. "What do you mean? What did you do?" he asked, cautiously.

Dean's gaze darted around the room, over towards where the front door rattled on its hinges, and he scrubbed a hand at his eyes. "You were dying, Sammy. I had to do _something_."

"What did you _do?_ "

"I let an angel in, man! H-he said he could help! He'd fix you, he'd leave. But he didn't. He hasn't. He lied. He lied about fixing you, about who he was, about _everything._ And now he's got you stuck in dreamland while he rides in the driver's seat. All right, but I'm going to fix it. That's why I'm here. So I need you to _wake up._ And I need you to send his ass flying."

"How… could you _do_ this? After _everything_. After what happened in the church—"

"I _know!_ All right? I know. I just… I couldn't lose you. After all that, I couldn't lose you for _nothing_." Dean pled with him, watching the outrage, the betrayal, the soul-deep _rage_ flicker across his brother's face. He felt it then. That bitter pill stuck in his throat. He'd pluck it out like the poison it was, but the truth was that it was just him; it had always been him. He was what was poisonous. Dean swallowed against the feeling, saying, "Look, you can yell at me all you want, later, but right now I need you to kick his ass out. He's still an angel: he's only here on your say-so. But you've got to hurry. Cas has got him distracted, but I don't think—"

The door smashed open as Castiel was bodily thrown across the room. He flew into the wall, landing heavily, only to roll back to his feet when the figure followed behind. Dean recognized this as the meatsuit the angel had been wearing when they'd first met. Back when he'd made another deal just to keep his little brother with him a little bit longer.

"Well. Now we're all here together," the angel said, shutting the door behind him.

"Dean," Cas said a little urgently, "I recognize him, now. He can't hide so easily in dream-space."

" _This_ is what's been inside me?" Sam asked, a little faintly.

"His name is Gadreel—"

"Gabriel?"

" _Gadreel_. He was the one. He was supposed to be guarding the Garden when the serpent entered. It's his fault, all of it. The corruption of man, demons, Hell. God _left_ because of _him._ The archangels, the apocalypse. If he hadn't been so weak, _none_ of it would have happened. You… _ruined_ the universe, you damn son of a bitch!"

"Cas, _Cas!_ " Dean hauled him back before he could launch himself back at the angel, still reeling a little in what he'd just been told. "Come on, Sam's got this. Sam?"

Sam eyed the angel. Gadreel. Or whatever his name was. Whatever he'd wanted, or planned, whatever trick he'd been trying to pull, hidden inside of him as a silent passenger these past few months. This, finally, was the wrongness given form. This was the thing in the corner of his eye, never quite seeable, never quite knowable, hiding again fast as quicksilver. This was the moveable darkness in his chest, staring at him now with burning, blue eyes.

"Yeah, I got this," Sam said quietly. "I'm wide awake."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I kind of wanted to take a break and do a bit of an actual hunt for this story. I wish the show would do a little more variety of monsters, like they used to. And I think the hidebehind would've made a pretty cool creature. I read Sometimes a Great Notion about ten years ago, and I still think about the brief mention of that thing every now and then. There actually is some real mythos behind it. Anyway. This book wasn't my favorite, but my family was really obsessed with it for a while.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter was a bit of a lighthearted break because there is heartbreak ahead.


	20. Take a Sad Song And Make It Better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Feels

They'd done it.

Dean's eyes shot open, and he was out the door almost before he could blink them for a second time.

"Sam! Sammy?"

Behind him he could hear Kevin and Charlie calling out in confusion, and Castiel's groggy voice raised in a warning, but Dean was already away. The bunker had gone silent from within as the screaming thing in Sam quieted. Dean found him in the entrance area, on the ground, bent over as though in pain. His arms were about his midsection and his head was bent. His face was covered by the thick sprawl of his hair.

"Sam?"

A low keening noise came from his brother, sending Dean's hackles up involuntarily. It was the kind of pained, low noise you might expect from a deathly-injured dog. Or a swallowed scream from a frightened child hiding under the bed while the _real_ monsters search.

"You okay?" he asked in greater urgency, hurrying over.

Sam's breathing was fast and irregular, like his body was going into shock. His voice rose, now: a consonant, stuck against the roof of his mouth, ratcheted out of him on his pained breath.

" _Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn_ —"

Dean knelt beside him, trying to uncurl the hard knot of his body to check for damage. Sam's body was stiff and rigid, frozen as though in death. Only he was still warm to the touch: almost _scalding_ , like he'd swallowed a star. But it would be okay. It would have to be okay. Dean was going to make it okay, again.

"Sammy?"

His head lifted, and Dean only had a moment to register the burning blue eye before the long, wretched consonant finally terminated on, " _No_."

Sam's head lifted back in an arched scream as light tore out of him, ripping free into bright, glowing grace buffeted by the wards still in place in the bunker. There was an almighty _screeching_ noise coming from somewhere as the bunker rocked again, something loud and splintering breaking somewhere within. In a moment the too-bright flare of disembodied angel streaked away, disappearing from view.

And then it was just Sammy, again. Sam, clutching his arm. Sam, staring at him, aghast. Sam whispering, "No."

Dean registered cold. He looked down to see his shirt front was wet. Gosh he was clumsy, sometimes. He'd have to wash it. He didn't mind doing the laundry here, though. It had always only been the laundromats that he didn't like.

"No."

Sam was holding a knife. Smart thinking. Always have to be prepared. He was lucky to have such a smart brother. This kid: he could do anything with his life. What a privilege that he had chosen to spend so much of it with Dean. Even now, Sam was still so close to him. After everything he'd done, Sam was even now grabbing him to hold him tighter.

"No, no, _no._ "

That broken sound again. Dean had thought they were past that. Even if the cold was turning into a bitter sort of frostbite right in the middle of him, there was no need for all that. Besides. The red permafrost that had covered the lands was melting. Even now Dean only held back the flood with the weight of his fingers.

When Sam put his frantic hands over Dean's, to staunch the blood flow, all the shiny edges were wiped away in a sharp press of clarity. He choked on a mouthful of blood, his stomach muscles _clenching_ and _searing_ right through him as he tried to stay upright.

"Dean! Oh, God, Dean. Hold on. Just hold on. I'm sorry. He was fighting. I… I was trying to force him out. I couldn't… I'm so sorry. _Kevin!_ " Sam called out desperately. "Charlie? _Cas!_ Cas, please help! Please! _God_."

Dean couldn't remember deciding to lie down, but it was soft again. The pain was there, but not as close. He couldn't seem to get his breath back. And there was Sammy crying over him. Again. This kid. This stupid, wonderful, goddamn kid. After everything Dean had just put him through, he was still crying over his screw-up of a brother. Dean reached up to pat his stupid face, his fingers leaving red, sliding marks in its place. "Whoa," he said, faintly, trying to smile. "Easy, tiger." His eyes were sliding shut, struggling for another breath. Time to retreat back under the ice. Close your eyes and dream of spring. Somewhere, he thought he could hear singing. A soft voice drawing him to it, pulling louder even than the sound of Sam's voice. Someone, somewhere out there, singing "Hey, Jude."

"Dean. _Dean!_ "

Not again. Not _again_. How many times could he go through this? How many times could he mend from it before it broke him for good? This time there was nothing. No deals to be made. No favors to call. There was just his brother, bled out on the floor in his arms. Sam had been struggling to throw the angel out, feeling it give. He'd been awake. He'd had the upper hand.

And then that angel had turned and put a knife into his brother. There was no purpose to it. It was just petty _meanness_. It was _vindictive_ and _cruel_ and Sam had been forced to feel the stab of primal pleasure the celestial bastard had felt, even as his own hands held the knife.

There was movement, and Sam lifted his head from his brother's corpse. "Cas," he sobbed. "Cas, we lost Dean. He killed him, Cas. He killed him."

Castiel moved into the room slowly, his eyes trailing from Sam, down to the body, and back up again. It took a moment for Sam to realize that Castiel wasn't sure it was really him. That must have been why Kevin and Charlie were keeping their distance, just until they could be sure. Sam didn't blame them. Really, it was hard to feel much of anything inside right now. His body felt like a block of wood that had been wormed through by termites. He felt hollow. Like he was one breath from falling apart. He was all duct tape and safety pins inside.

"Cas?" Sam begged him. He knew he couldn't save Dean. It wasn't even fair to think about it right now, when he knew how desperately Cas must have wanted to. But Sam needed him to at least be present with him. To not look at him like he was a monster. To be there so they could mourn a brother together. "Cas, please, it's me. The angel's gone."

Castiel stood over him, looking at the crimson tide Sam was sitting in. And then he knelt down beside them, picking up the discarded knife and examining it. "I believe you, Sam," Castiel said, quietly.

Sam's breath hitched on another sob, shaking his head as he looked at his brother. Sam let him down, gently, smoothing away the pained crease on his still brow. With his eyes shut like that, he could almost be sleeping. "He's gone. He's gone."

"It's all right, Sam."

No. No, it wasn't all right. Sam wanted to be _angry_. Sam wanted to shake this fucking world apart. He wanted to grab Dean by the lapels of his jacket and slug him in his meddling face for letting a fucking angel into him. He wanted to shake him and scream at him until he understood just how _violated_ he had felt and didn't Dean understand _yet_. But he couldn't do any of that. All he could do was endure this silence for the rest of his life while a part of himself went missing into death with Dean.

"Sam," Castiel was insistent. He was still holding that freaking knife. Didn't he understand: it was over. The damage had been done; holding it didn't remove its taint. "Sam, it _will_ be all right. But I need you to be strong, now."

Why? What was the point? He was never going to get this out of his head. All the ways he'd seen Dean die in that eternal Tuesday, all the times he'd had to hold him while he gasped out the last of his life, all the things that he'd had to endure: _none_ of it compared to actually holding the knife, feeling it slide home at once rough and smooth, scraping over bone and slicing cartilage and meat.

"Sam, please, there isn't much time."

"What?" he asked, disoriented. "What, uh, what do you need, Cas?"

Castiel turned the knife, offering it to Sam handle-first. "I need you to kill me."

Sam recoiled. "What? _No!_ What is _wrong_ with you? I… Jesus, Cas, I know you and Dean were close, but it's not worth _dying_ over!"

Castiel looked exasperated with him. "I do not," he said, "want to die because I am _sad_ , Sam. This is necessary. My grace may still be recoverable in Heaven. I can fix this. I can fix _all_ of it."

The words were having trouble filtering into Sam's brain. He understood, at some level, that Cas was talking about a tactical consideration. He just wanted no part of it. It was bad enough having to feel that angelic bastard killing Dean. He couldn't take an active role with Cas, now, to affect the same change. Besides, he was having trouble really thinking at all. He felt sick and dizzy, and like his power source had just gone unplugged. He wasn't sure if it was from his brother's death, leftover angel bullshit, or the trials' healing left unaddressed, but he was _not_ in a good way.

So he coughed, trying to get a full lungful of air, saying, "No. No, if you're going to do it, than do it. Why's it gotta be me?"

"Because," Cas said, heavily, "I do not think I am able." He wanted to _live._ There were still so many things he hadn't done as a human. So many sights, and feelings. So many people to meet, and love, and lose, and forget. But he couldn't think about that now. He didn't have the luxury. So he grabbed Sam's protesting hand, pressing his fingers around the grip. "Please. Help me, Sam."

"Don't make me do this."

"It will be all right. Have faith, Sam."

Faith. A fallen angel was telling him to have faith. After another angel had just used his body to murder his brother. Faith, after God had _explicitly_ told them that He wasn't going to get involved. When this same fallen angel had declared himself a god; when they had only ever fought for expression of free will, independent of some grand design or ideal.

Castiel must have seen the repugnance on Sam's face, because his fingers curved tighter around Sam's, lifting the blade to his chest as he repeated, "Have faith. Have faith in _me_. In our mission. Have faith in Dean. That Dean will return. That we can fix this." Sam could feel the tip of the knife just meeting the flesh over Castiel's heart. And he was crying wretched tears, but his hands were steady as Cas implored, "Have faith in yourself. That you're doing the right thing. That you will survive whatever you have to. Because you must. It will be well because we will make it well." This blade was still coated in Dean's blood, and now it joined with Castiel's as skin began to part against the metal. Castiel's voice was soft in the end when he said, "Please, Sam. Friend, brother: Help me."

Sam slid the blade home, and there were no more words. Castiel gripped Sam's forearm for a moment. The pressure: was it thanks or regret? His hand fell away.

Sam couldn't even see straight. He was crying so hard, it felt like his body was about to rattle itself loose. His limbs just felt so heavy, distant satellites slowly filtering in pain. It was nothing compared to the ravaging ache in his chest. His breath was harsh, and he was dizzy again. Even trying to stop himself from crying, he felt a weakness in him that seemed wholly unrelated to the emotional devastation he had just undergone. It came as a kind of dull shock that he realized he was dying. Like, right now. Whatever little sustaining actions that angel had made in his body, they weren't there anymore. He was breaking down, rapidly, and there was no saving grace to sustain him. He could almost laugh at the tableau they left behind, all lying in one another's blood like the end of a Tarantino flick. He thought Dean might have at least gotten a kick out of that. If Dean were alive to see it.

That was one good thing, Sam thought as he shivered himself onto the floor, unable to sit up anymore. One good thing. He'd see Dean, again, soon. It would be like Cas had said: All would be well. Because they were going to make it well. He could help navigate Heaven. They'd get Castiel's grace back. Kick Metatron to the curb. Fix Heaven and all its little angels. Fix Earth and all its little people. Fix Hell and all its little demons. It was going to be okay.

Ultimately, dying like this wasn't so bad. It wasn't quite like falling asleep because he felt like he was drowning and being pulled under into darkness. But otherwise it was better than being stabbed on the back or getting a shotgun to the chest. And on the reverse side, becoming aware after death was rather like waking up. His senses didn't quite feel right, but they filtered in slowly as he became aware of a presence. He was not in the bunker anymore: that much was clear. But otherwise he couldn't pinpoint where he was. There was mostly darkness, a concrete floor, and someone approaching.

"Dean?" Sam asked, groggily, and then feeling himself run cold as he recognized the figure coming towards him.

"'Fraid not, Moose," Crowley said, standing over him in a new, pressed suit and a familiar, cocky little swagger. "The flying squirrel got a one-way ticket upstairs. You, on the other hand." He made a tutting sound. "Apparently the slate got washed clean when our fine-feathered friend became human. None of those massacres stained his new form. Since then he's lived a peaceful little life. And you. Well, you just murdered an innocent, didn't you? No, Sam," Crowley grinned down at him, possessively, "I think you're heading in a different direction entirely."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those reading this directly after uploading: This is not the last chapter. Adventures in Heaven and Hell pending. Ooh, I am EXCITED for Heaven. Just so many dead people I've been missing!
> 
> I'm so, so sorry for killing them all. I know, I'm mean.
> 
> I appreciate any feedback (but maybe put a SPOILER warning?). Yes, even if it's just to call me mean. (But, okay, look, it's not like they're really gone! Stop that, I already feel terrible just for writing this.)


	21. Heaven Is In Your Mind

Dean knew he was dead.

He remembered dying. Not in a particularly painful or unpleasant manner. But in the way one might recall the follies of youth. It hurt to handle the sharp edges of the memory, but it wouldn't break him.

He also remembered that he had a job to do. And he knew he should get started on trying to track down Castiel's grace. If he followed the Road like the last time he died, maybe he'd find the answers he was looking for towards the center of Heaven. But for now, he let himself relive just this one memory. He thought he had maybe earned this much.

"You'll be careful?" his dad was saying. John Winchester—well, a projection of John Winchester—stood over Dean.

"Yes, sir," he agreed, immediately. He shifted on the couch impatiently, feeling a little shaky with anticipation.

"You remember what we talked about? Where to put your hands?"

"John," Mary laughed, breaking off from humming her lullaby and moving past him. "He's a big boy, now. A big brother. You'll take care of Sam, won't you, Dean?" she asked, setting the soft bundle in his waiting arms.

Oh, he had forgotten just how _little_ his brother had once been. All pink folds and fresh new baby smell. And no hair at all. The first time around, he'd filled up all of Dean's little arms. Such a healthy, comforting weight to be trusted with. Dean could still remember how his heart had raced and filled, holding tight for fear of dropping him, and yet still so frightened of breaking him. Just the soft, warm, breathing mass of a whole new person. A brother. And it felt just the same, now. Even though he knew this was all just a projection. Even though as an adult, with now plenty more experience, he could easily manage the infant in his arms. The child-like wonder was there, making him tear up as he pressed a scratchy, smiling kiss to the baby's forehead. Little Sam's eyes opened at that, still that baby-blue that would eventually darken greener. Dean thought maybe this was when he really lost his heart to that kid. It was as simple as that. Their childhood may have played a number on him; his self-worth; his thinking; his heart; his life. But it still really all came back to this foundation. This first surge of fierce, protective love.

"Always," Dean promised. He closed his eyes, holding tight to this moment just a little longer.

But it was time to go. The job didn't end just because you were dead. That was kind of messed up, but not really worth dwelling on. Maybe eventually he'd get to take it easy, but he realized that they'd actually been given a pretty good opportunity, here. If Dean could just pull a plug on the spell from up here, that was all to the good. Bet that stupid angel was kicking himself, now, effectively giving Dean Winchester access direct access to his own downfall. Jeez, what a maroon.

It didn't take long for Dean to find the Road running right outside the house. It would be lonelier, this time, he assumed. With Sam still alive and well, his Heaven was going to mostly just be populated with his memories. All good memories. But still not really the people he was missing. He thought it probably said something about the divine expectation of humans as a whole. That we really only prefer the _idea_ of people rather than the people themselves. Well, maybe that was true. Whoever set all this up supposedly would know better.

There were a few pit-stops along the way. The Road didn't run right through, and sometimes he had to search for it a bit. One lazy summer afternoon he'd spent at target practice with Sam, he found the Road hiding in the highway drawing on the liquor bottle Sam had in his sights. Another time it was in the gravel at the bottom of his scotch "on the rocks" from that pretentious little place in Seattle where the bartender had been teasing him all night. There was even a certain leniency, he was to discover, in the exact phrasing of what really constituted a "road" when he let his gaze run over a certain… landing-strip. For the most part, though, it was a journey in patience.

Eventually he emerged blinking into sunlight. And this was… well, not really what he'd been expecting. Like, this wasn't an unhappy memory of his, precisely, but he wouldn't have put it on his greatest-hits list. He was seated on a bench next to a playground, enjoying the sensation of a job well-done. This town, he remembered, was still standing because of him. That junkless jerk, Uriel, had insisted they just level the place to keep a seal from breaking with the raising of Samhain. Dean had failed, there, even if he'd eventually managed to put the bastard down. It was kind of a mixed result. He'd ended up even less certain of how far he could actually rely on these angel dudes. They'd lost a seal. People had died. But the town was still here. These kids were all still alive and well. Because of him. Maybe it deserved to be in his Heaven after all.

Dean glanced over to the other bench, where he knew his projection-Cas would be. Back before they were really friends. Back when Castiel was still a soldier of Heaven, struggling to sort his loyalties.

Except this Cas didn't look like the one from his memory. Oh, he was back in the suit and crooked tie, wearing the same dirty trench coat and mildly consternated expression. But there was too much humanity in his look. The gaze was more direct. This wasn't a cautious ally extending the first tendrils of camaraderie; there was too much history in that look for that to be the case. This was, Dean realized with a jolt of selfish joy, not a projection: it was really him.

"Cas!" Ignoring the startled expression on his friend's face, he pulled him to his feet and into a hug. "You're really here?" he asked when Cas gave no response, stepping back to arm's length again. "Sorry, it's just good to see you, man. Well, I mean the real you. I feel like I should probably be more somber. Like, sorry you died. How'd that happen, anyway? Is Sam all right?"

"Sam was… alive, when last I saw him," Castiel said, like that was the best that could be said of the situation. "As for how I got here, I… deemed it a necessary sacrifice. In order to retrieve my grace. It seemed like a good idea at the time," Castiel said, still seeming a little disconcerted. He avoided eye contact, seeming to be trying to puzzle something out.

"And I guess you spruced up your wardrobe again, then."

"This is how I see myself, yes," Cas said, absently, running a hand down his trench coat. "Dean," he went on, still not looking at him, "you should not be here."

"You're telling me," Dean laughed. "When we kick Metatron's ass, maybe let's see if I can't Lazarus this one more time, okay?"

"No, that is not what I meant. I meant only… I did not expect you in _my_ Heaven."

"This is yours?" Dean asked, a little surprised, looking around. "This is one of _your_ favorite memories? But… we screwed up. Sam and I, we let the seal get broken. We got in the way of you guys."

"Yes," Castiel agreed, watching the children scrambling over the playground equipment. There was a certain wistfulness in his gaze, combined with a rather quiet kind of joy. "But this is also where… I don't expect you to understand, fully. I have been here a… very long time. Change does not come easily. And usually not without good reason. I think it was here that I really felt that change in myself begin. I began to question more. To think for myself more. And… I think this is where the beginning of our friendship started to take form. When I remember this place, I do recall that a seal was broken. But you ended up being infinitely more important to me than that."

Dean wasn't really sure what to say to that. It was such a big thing to say to someone else. That you held their friendship in higher esteem than the locks on the cage holding back Lucifer. Effectively, more than the apocalypse and everything that went with it. Dean knew that Castiel had given up a lot for him and Sam. A _lot._ His home, his life, his family, even his purpose to some extent. But Cas had never really held it over them. He'd barely even mentioned it except for when Dean had nearly thrown it all away by saying 'yes' to Michael. It was still a surprise to find that in the middle of all of this, even after Dean's latest mistakes, Cas still held him in such high regard. And just spoke with such matter-of-fact certitude. Like there wasn't even room for argument. That was just so… very like the nerdy little guy.

"Well," Dean cleared his throat. "I mean, uh. You know, you're… important to me, too, man."

"Thank you," Castiel said, solemnly. "But I have to admit I… am still very surprised to see you, here. Except in the case of soul-mates, people do not _share_ Heavens. And you are already soul-mates with Sam."

Dean wasn't really sure how he felt about that. Like, sure, he sort of remembered Cas mentioning that the last time he was here, but he'd pretty much accepted it as a given that Sam would share his Heaven. Of course he would. Dean couldn't spend eternity without his little brother there with him. But Sam was one thing. Cas? Like… Okay, so they did apparently have this… profound bond thing. Apparently. And… Okay, so Cas was pretty much his best friend. But… soul-mates? _Really?_ That just… How was a guy supposed to process a thing like that?

In fact it took him a few seconds to say, "Well I, uh… I guess I have… two soul-mates, then?"

"It appears so, yes. It is _very_ unusual, though. A person having one soul-mate is rare enough. I don't believe I've ever heard of a person having two."

Dean was nodding along, when this drew him up short. "Did… you just call me a soul-mate slut?"

"…No."

"You hesitated."

"Perhaps we should press on," Castiel said, a little hurriedly. "It has not been as easy for me to navigate in this form, but it may be better if we use your Road. My… preferred method is unavailable. Moreover, we shouldn't stay in any place for too long. Metatron restored a few loyal followers back to power. Partially to maintain Heaven. We cannot allow them to catch up to us, or I'll simply be resurrected again. We need to find my grace before that can happen."

"Wait, 'maintain Heaven'? What, like, trim the hedges? Add extras to the orgies?"

"More like keeping it from collapsing in itself. Each Heaven is like its own pocket universe. Maintenance of Heaven requires exceptional care. It was a privilege to be given duties over our Father's creation in their afterlife. There were entire battalions of angels working tirelessly for all eternity in this capacity. Now… with only a few to give scant attention…"

Great, so even Heaven was on the line with this mess. And if Dean allowed himself to think about it, what a frightening concept that ultimately was: the destruction of his species' afterlife. If Heaven went, what would happen to all the souls? Would they all just wink out? Every person who had ever existed, every person who _would_ ever exist, mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and friends and lovers—were they really all just dust in the wind?

"I think the Road is this way," he said, a little more urgent than before.

It must have been strange for Castiel, being so limited in this place. This was pretty much his home, after all. He was probably used to just flapping around wherever he felt like going, in the blink of an eye. He handled it well, though, content to take Dean's Road further into the interior. Now that they were together, they seemed to alternate on whose memory they would be entering. Most of Dean's Heaven was filled with family and friends: BBQ's with Lisa and Ben in the backyard, a weekend with Bobby as a kid, standing with his brother on the roof in a Batman and Superman costume. Dean had a little more trouble always understanding what made a good memory for Cas. There were some downright frightening things from his perspective, like the time they came upon a violent storm of hot, choking gases on an alien hard-baked shore. Castiel had pointed to the water, saying something about chlorophyll, when he'd just given up and looked for the Road out of there. Another time there'd been that band of weird-looking guys with some funky-looking foreheads spewing gibberish and wildly gesticulating to the air. Cas had given him an almost expectant look when they'd paused there, finally sighing and muttering about Homo sapiens' failure as a poetic species. But then again, there were one or two memories where Dean had recognized the scenery as Bobby's house or a hunt they'd shared. Those, at least, were more understandable.

That was until they came onto what seemed to be a soccer field. There were young teens, here, dressed in team uniforms. Dean didn't recognize the locale; he'd never been here that he could recall, and there didn't seem a conceivable reason why Cas would have any reason to be here.

Then Cas pointed out a blonde girl on wing forward and, looking closer, Dean realized he knew her. "Claire?" he asked, in some surprise. "You mean like… Jimmy's kid? I mean, your vessel's kid? But… why?"

"I promised Jimmy that his family would be cared for. Free from harm. They _were_ under my protection, Dean," he said, a little sternly.

Well, that was a little better than one of Dean's more uncharitable thoughts. That maybe Cas had been keeping an eye on a potential vessel. Or her bloodline at least. Yeah, the explanation did make it seem a little less sinister.

"So, what, you just… looked in on them occasionally?"

"Not at first," Cas admitted. "Not while Jimmy was still with me. He was released at some point after my first death, but until then I stayed away. I feared it would be too painful for him. But… afterwards, every now and then. This," he gestured, "was a small victory for Claire. And a rather larger one for me. This was the game she stopped looking to the stands and wishing her father could be there. She didn't pray to me to return her father anymore. She only prayed that I keep him safe."

To Dean, that sounded like one of the saddest things he'd ever heard. It was easy to forget that someone had given up his job, life, his family, his everything, to become a vessel for Castiel. Until he'd become human, the flesh he'd worn wasn't really him. He was just light and energy housed in a human-shaped container. Dean barely even gave a thought to the kid that had lost her father in all of this. And here, a happy memory for Cas had been the day she'd given up on ever getting him back.

Dean could understand at _some_ level, though. It couldn't have been easy for Cas. Hearing this girl's prayers, pleading with him, knowing he could hear her. Being basically unable to ignore it. One way of seeing this was that Claire's spirit had finally been broken by reality. She'd given up. Succumbed. She held no further hopes. Or, on the other hand, maybe there was a positive side to this, after all. Maybe it was part of a process, and she'd finally begun to heal. Maybe this was just rejoicing in that she'd finally let go of a lost cause. But Dean really didn't want to probe this too far, afraid of what he'd find.

"Anyway, we should go," he said, but Cas seemed distracted by something. There was a person walking across the field towards them. He didn't seem to fit in with the memory, either. He carried a little ball of twine that he let out steadily behind him as he walked, its end disappearing in the grass behind him. He was a slim Midwestern man with a familiar face, carried very differently.

"Jimmy," Castiel greeted him when he came within spitting distance. The salutation was rather reserved. Almost apprehensive.

"Castiel. Still wearing my face, I see." He wasn't actively hostile, but there was certainly a twinge of bitterness to the words.

"Technically, this is a construct of Heaven. I am not wearing your face so much as the face is a part of my conceptualized vision of self. If I saw myself as a cat, I imagine you would be having this conversation from the other end of my whiskers."

"…Yeah, whatever, that's still my face."

All right, though, this was getting downright ridiculous. "Okay, I know for a _fact_ that I am not soul-mates with Jimmy."

Jimmy gave Dean an exasperated look that should have felt very familiar. It was strange, though. Jimmy and Cas looked about as alike as two people could be; they literally shared the same skin, after all. And yet it wasn't Jimmy's more casual clothing or Castiel's more wind-swept hair that really set them apart. Those were superficial differences at best. Maybe it was just that Dean knew Castiel so well by now, but he rather doubted that was all there was to it. There was just a fundamental difference in the way they formed their expressions, their manner of standing, and looking, and speaking—to the point that their resemblance to one another seemed more an accident than anything else.

"Heaven is collapsing," he said. "The borders are pretty easy to cross, these days. Besides, they figured I'd be able to work my way to Castiel, at least. What with him, you know, _having my face and all_." Castiel looked like he would correct him again, but maybe thought better of it. Jimmy glanced over at the ongoing game. His eyes immediately found Claire. Jimmy's throat worked for a moment before he said, "You… kept your promise, then"

"Of course," Cas said, almost gently.

"Wait, 'they'?" Dean asked, a little pointedly. "Who sent you?"

Jimmy held up the twine ball, pointing the way back to where he had come from. "Someone who's looking forward to seeing you, again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't forgotten about Sam. I'll get to him, promise.
> 
> Also I'm still giggling over "soul-mate slut." Well, at least I amuse myself.
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


	22. Deep Cuts

Sam had thought Hell would be a bit more… hellish.

Oh, this wasn't to say there wasn't torture. There was. He was in agony most of the time. But… it was only _most_ of the time. He still had memories of his time in the Cage, and while the hard edge had come off of them so he didn't go insane, it still almost made him wet his pants just to think about it.

This was almost tame in comparison. There were pieces of himself being carved off only to regenerate in itchy anguish for the next time around. There were hooks and skewers and knives and parts of himself just _everywhere_. And the blood—why did they always go for the blood? Draining him over and over and leaving him strung up to drip onto collecting vats below.

But then sometimes they just left him alone like that. It wasn't fun by any means, hanging from hooks literally _in_ his flesh, but it wasn't the round-the-clock torture he'd been expecting. Sometimes they just knocked off for a few days in between to let him stew over it. It had started off as pretty constant, but now they increasingly seemed to almost… forget about him.

And it was all very painful. But there was always a place in his mind he could retreat to. They never got him so badly that he couldn't still hold onto a part of himself. And that just… didn't quite seem right. He really shouldn't complain. But it was all only physical, with very little of the mind-fuckery he would have expected. Okay, so occasionally they took Dean's face when they were cutting into him. Sometimes it… it really did feel like it was his older brother. In the Pit again. Torturing again. Telling Sam how he'd been waiting years for this. That Sam had always been a monster. That it would have always come to this. How… how glad Dean was to see him on his rack. Together again and for forever. And maybe it was a little disconcerting to see Dean with pitch-black eyes, grinning at him. But… really, in the end, Sam knew deep down that it wasn't real. He might forget every now and then right in the middle, but ultimately he knew that couldn't be true. Dean loved him. Dean had gone to Heaven. Dean was safe. Dean would save him somehow, like he always did. Like they always did for one another. He just needed to remember what Cas had said. Have faith.

Have faith.

"Please," he prayed. His throat ache from screaming, tearing with thirst. His mouth felt like it was filled with ash, where even swallowing was like sandpaper down his throat. Speaking was pure agony, his chapped and bleeding lips forming the words, "Please." Funny, how you can still pray in Hell. Had God ever heard them, down there? Was it always too late to repent? Sam didn't know. He didn't even know if he cared anymore. All he could do was hope. Keep the faith. "Please. Please, Dean."

He heard a door opening somewhere. He'd been suspended in darkness for he didn't know how long, just growing parts of himself back for them to cut into again. At an intellectual level he knew it wasn't really a door, and this wasn't _really_ his body, but it was easier to think in concrete forms down here. So yes, that was a door he was hearing, creaking open on rusty metal. Those were the sounds of boot heels slowly advancing into the room. That was his sweat dripping down his face, mixing with blood all over his naked body, tangled into his hair and stubble-growth; his flesh screaming as he put tension on the line, lifting his head in uneven jerks.

And that was sure as shit Meg standing right in front of him.

"Well, look at _you_ all hung up to dry. Someone's been having fun."

"Meg," he ground out, shaking with rage. It just made the hooks in him tremble and hurt more, but he didn't care. Really, he shouldn't have been surprised. Of course the hell-bitch had never really been on their side. Of course she'd betray them.

She paced closer. The light from the door behind her made her backlit, her features still fairly obscured. In her hand he could see a long metal object hanging long as she swung it by her side lazily. Bolt-cutters. "What naughty things did _you_ do to get kicked downstairs?"

Her face seemed to swim in front of him. He was dizzy, nauseous. His throat worked for a moment as he tried to bring her into focus. "Cas," he whispered, a different kind of pain tearing through him. "I killed Cas."

Meg's face was dreadful. Down here, he could see what she looked like under that stolen skin. Not completely, but there were hints of it peeking through. Even if he couldn't, the rage in her eyes would have been terrible to behold. She lifted the bolt-cutters, her voice deadened. "I know you did."

And then she began to cut.


	23. Eyes On The Road, Hands Upon The Wheel

Heaven, it turned out, was kind of a mess. And it only got worse the further they got to the center convergence.

Not that Dean really minded all that much. Yeah, sure, he'd be kind of pissed if he was planning on sticking around and things were this screwed up, but right now he felt more like a tourist than anything. The point wasn't to take it easy in eternity. And apparently he wasn't the only one who felt that way. By Jimmy's account, with Heaven falling apart, just about everyone they'd lost in the past few years was forming a kind of central intelligence office back at Ash's Heaven in the Roadhouse.

"Ash has been tracking you guys since you took the elevator upstairs," Jimmy explained "but his system has gone pretty haywire in the last while. In the end, they pretty much just pushed me in the right general direction and told me to sniff it out."

Jimmy's twine line led them away from Dean's Road, and he really wasn't kidding about the walls between Heavens wearing thin. There were odd memories that didn't seem to belong to any of them, sometimes filled with confused people who just wanted to get back to their own eternities but had no exit. In other instances, the locales seemed to have been jammed together out of competing memories to make a discordant, unnatural place.

"Heaven. They sure don't make 'em like they used to," Jimmy noted, wryly, as they walked through what looked like a little girl's bedroom with a mosh pit going on in the corner.

Dean watched an older, conservatively dressed woman getting into a shouting match with a punk chick over the sound of heavy metal, waving a doll in her general direction and gesticulating wildly. "Hell is other people," Dean agreed. Maybe it really was a better idea to just let people stew in their own best thoughts for forever.

"Technically, Hell is an alternative nega-space dimension that exists inside—"

"Not what I was talking about, buddy," Dean cut Cas off. "How much further is it?" he asked, a little impatiently.

"It's shifted since I last passed through here," Jimmy explained. "So none of what we're seeing is familiar to me. But I think we're nearly there," he indicated his twine ball, which he'd been winding back up. It did indeed look suitably large in his hands.

"How'd you get recruited in all this, anyway?" Dean asked.

"It's a little hard to measure time up here, but this mess has been going on for a while. I guess Ash noticed the glitches in the system before most and started getting in contact with anyone who'd ever had the misfortune to meet a Winchester. You have a _lot_ of acquaintances up here," he added, a little accusingly. Because, yes, fine, it was a fair point: the friendliness to mortality correlation coefficient was pretty damned statistically significant. Jimmy didn't have to rub it in.

"Dean does tend to associate with good people," Cas agreed, completely missing the point. "I'm not surprised they went to Heaven."

"That's not what I—"

"Is that it?" Dean interrupted, pointing up ahead.

It didn't look like the Roadhouse from this side. It was just a door in a field that didn't actually seem to connect to anywhere, but Jimmy's twine was wrapped around its handle and there was a slash of glowing symbols on the wood.

Suddenly Dean felt apprehensive. There really were a lot of people he knew up here. Good people, many of whom he'd had a part in sending along to their deaths. The ones he'd run into last time seemed to have made their peace with it. But they couldn't speak for everyone. And that was back when Heaven was… well, Heavenly. But now? Hell, now he'd had a part in fucking up the afterlife, too. How much damage could he do before everyone finally just had enough of him?

Jimmy opened the door, wiping away the symbol as they passed through, and after a tense moment in which Dean steeled himself, he followed behind Cas to enter the Roadhouse. There, he was suddenly met with a burst of activity in direct contrast to the calm, quiet field they had just been in. There were people answering phones, stacking papers and laptops on every surface from the pool table to the whole length of the bar, calling over one another's heads. The place was filled nearly to bursting: people he'd known, people he'd briefly met. People he'd failed to save. And… and some he _had_ saved. People who really shouldn't have _been_ here.

"Hey, hey—you!" he stopped a kid who was running by just then. "You're, uh… Tommy Collins! That Collins kid from Colorado. With the Wendigo."

"Oh, hey, Dean!" the other returned, rather cheerfully. "Long time, no see."

"That's right, I… I almost forgot. Crowley got you in the end," Dean said, guilt twisting his gut. This poor kid had gotten caught in the middle, killed off for no worse crime than knowing the Winchesters.

"Hey, don't worry about it, it's not that bad," Tommy said. "But, look, I've got to get these over to Bobby. The angels we're tracking are making some funny movements. You should come with."

"Bobby…?"

Dean had hoped. Of course he had hoped to see Bobby here. It just wasn't until he actually saw Bobby that he allowed himself to feel the relief of reunion. They'd entered into a side room off the bar that Dean couldn't remember existing in the real Roadhouse and, with its big desk set right in the middle, reminded him significantly of Bobby's study from his old house. Bobby was in the just dismissing a couple of people Dean vaguely recognized—that Weems guy from forever ago, a rather stringy looking blonde, and that Ghostfacers intern—and then he turned.

Dean tensed. He'd screwed up. He'd seriously screwed up, this time, and everyone knew it. He fully expected Bobby to let him have it with both barrels. It would be what he deserved, to be honest.

Instead Bobby strode over and wrapped him into a hug, pounding his back. "Damn it, boy," he heard Bobby say, gruffly, "you die too often."

"I'm sorry," Dean managed, when he was finally released. There was just so much to apologize for. And he was sorry for every bit of it. "But you're… you're doing all right?"

"Well, it's no bed of roses. But the being-dead part isn't so bad. They've got pretty good whiskey up here." Bobby nodded to Jimmy next saying, "Good job, tracking them down. And Castiel. Good to see—" He grunted as Cas pulled him into a hug as well, looking a bit stiff and shocked until Cas released him. There was a rather awkward silence.

"…I'm sorry. I thought this was a hugging occasion."

"I guess it is now," Bobby brushed it off while Dean just shook his head. "But we can save the tea-party until after we've fixed whatever the hell has screwed up Heaven. Maybe you two can shed some light on it," he gestured them over to his desk where a large map had various pins stuck in it, and a rather clunky laptop was precariously perched on a pile of books, spitting out long lines of text. "These are the angels' movements, best we can track 'em. Most the feather-dusters dropped out of sight before this crop showed up. We've got scores of scouts out phoning in their movements. Jo and Ellen should be back soon with some better idea of what they're up to. See, they used to mostly be in here maintaining the place, but now? Apart from the ones who seemed to be tearing up Heaven looking for the two of you, they all seem to be guarding something. It moves around a lot, but according to Ash it's just a big mess of power. Still don't know what it is—every remote scan we've run on the damn thing fizzled our equipment—but we figure it's what gave the boot to most of the angels."

"It's my Grace," Castiel said in musing tones, leaning over the map. "Or at least that's what's at the heart of it."

"Well, that explains the fizzle," Bobby sighed. "Guess it's a good thing we didn't have Pamela try to take a peek at it. I think burning her eyes out once was enough for one eternity."

"Do each of these pins signify a single angel?"

"No, ten," Jimmy put in, also frowning down at the map so that they stood side by side, wearing identical expressions on the same face.

"Well that's gonna take some getting used to," Bobby muttered, but when they both looked up the illusion was shattered so they looked more accidental doubles, again.

"Retrieving my Grace is going to be key," Cas said, expression intense. "If we can do that, we can shut it all down. Return the angels to Heaven, and repair everything. From there we can make greater strides into repairing the earth and the damage Hell has done."

"No pressure or anything," Dean said.

"Well when Jo and Ellen get back, I guess we'll have to start planning the assault. We got no shortage of volunteers ready to step up," Bobby nodded to the activity going on in the rest of the Roadhouse, looking rather proud. "You boys ought to acquaint yourselves better with our current intel, if you're gonna be much help."

While Jimmy gestured Cas over to some of the summarizing reports, Dean stopped Bobby to ask him quietly, "Bobby, my parents. Are either of them…?"

"I'm sorry," Bobby said, looking a little pained. "We're still trying to track everyone down. I'm sure they'll turn up, but they've made a habit of hiding since they got here. Even before the whole place went belly-up. We can see if there's anyone free to make another survey for them?"

"No. No, it's fine. I just wondered," Dean quickly put it off before turning to follow Cas and Jimmy. "It was just an idea, anyway."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter of course named after "Roadhouse Blues" by The Doors


	24. Hell Ain't What She Used To Be

Sam barely even felt the pain in his knees when they suddenly met with the gritty, concrete floor. The hooks were still in his flesh, but the tension was gone as he leaned against Meg's legs, breathing hard. He could feel her fingers digging into screaming tissue to fish the metal parts out, but it was almost a petty annoyance compared to what she had just freed him from.

"Meg," he panted, feeling tears of pain and gratitude leaking from his eyes. "Thank you. God. Thank you."

"Yeah, shut up." She still sounded rather gruff, but when she pulled Sam to his feet—suddenly encased in shoes, his flesh reknitted and his clothes returned, yes, every layer of them—she was no rougher than she had to be.

He steadied himself against her, still reeling with the feeling of surcease of pain. "Meg, why…?"

"I didn't come down here _looking_ for you, if that's what you think. I'm still wanted, you know. And it's not like Crowley's just forgotten about me. He's only a little… distracted."

"With Abaddon," Sam filled in. God, worrying about her felt like it was years ago. It might have been, down here.

"Among other things," Meg said, a bit cryptically, as she led the way to the door.

"Can't you just… smoke us out of here?"

"I wouldn't count on it. I'm pretty weak. Cards on the table? I couldn't even teleport down here."

"Then… how did you get in?"

"Coyotes. Same way you did, I hear tell. And I don't know if you've noticed, but it is a _mess_ down here. Security's lax, people are going without eternal punishment for long stretches of time... You know, Hell: she ain't what she used to be."

They'd entered a somewhat reminiscent hall that Sam thought he remembered from when he'd come down here to rescue Bobby. It was a little emptier than he remembered. There were a few damned souls down here, but not as many as he would have expected. And Meg was right: none of them looked as if they were being _actively_ tortured.

"What's happened? Where are all the demons?" he asked.

"You know, funny you should ask that, Moose. See, I've got a few connections down here, still. I linked in as soon as I could. As soon as I heard about—"

She caught herself. Sam realized, suddenly, that when she'd heard Cas had died, a part of her had been afraid he'd Fallen far enough to warrant a place down here. He wondered whether she'd feared for the suffering the little ex-angel would have undergone, or hoped for that final corruption that would put that creature of light down into the Pit with the rest of them. Ultimately, he couldn't find it in him to ask.

"Anyway," she continued. "I've heard some strange reports. Things I didn't know whether I believed it until I saw if for myself. And it all comes back to you, Jolly Green."

"Me?" Sam asked, startled. "What did I do?"

She tapped his arm, like a nurse searching for a vein. That image was actually a little too convincing on her, and she gave a shark's smile when she said, "The blood, Moose. Your blood is still crawling with essence of angel—purifying power. Squeaky clean enough to be used in a purification ritual, anyway. I guess Crowley took a few notes from the aborted hijinks you tried to play on him. Seems that, to start it all off, he was using the ritual to purify the competition. Make the big, bad demons trying to muscle in on him human again, just to kill them and cycle them back through demon pre-school, putting them at the bottom of the totem pole."

"That's…"

"Diabolical, I know. Using a tool of Heaven for selfish means. Who'd a thunk it? The problem is—well, _Crowley's_ problem, not mine—is that it got away from him. For a little while there this was his own private punishment and torture method all rolled into one. Cut the dissent, eliminate any rivals, he's sitting pretty as a baby in a bassinet. Thing is, the other demons caught on. It's not exactly a difficult ritual. I'm surprised it took you dummies _this_ long to figure it out. Now it's like Lord of the Flies out there. I mean there were always pecking orders, but it wasn't like you could just jump the guy a few rungs up and send him back to the bottom. And the souls are escaping all over the place: where they turn 'em human but don't hook 'em to the rack, or when they're just careless with the ones down here for a first time."

They were nearing where Sam remembered the portal into Purgatory was. They hadn't even been challenged; not once. "And where's Crowley in all of this?"

"Nobody's seen him. There're rumors he's hiding out, afraid someone will bump him back down to peon. That slimy little shit-weasel's probably got something up his sleeve, though."

Meg reached out towards the wall, searching for the gap that would take them out of Hell. Her fingers met smooth stone. She tried again, a bit more frantically, before turning to Sam, letting out an unconvincing little chuckle. "Uh. Bad news, Sparky. Turns out there's no happy farm in upstate New York ready to let you frolic in its pastures."

Sam made his own inspection, cursing quietly. "We're trapped."


End file.
